


Abyssus Abyssum Invocate

by VagrantWriter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Historical, Consensual Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Euron is his own warning, Explicit Sexual Content, Gladiators, Harm to Animals, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Games, Mutual Masturbation, Physical Abuse, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Rape Aftermath, Slavery, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-11-06 03:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 38
Words: 63,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17932277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: Theon has less than a year before his family’s debt is paid and he can once more be a free citizen of the Roman Empire and again take his place by his beloved Robb’s side as his equal. But of course, the gods have other plans, and the only one crueler than Fortuna is Theon’s new master.Perhaps there's another shift in the winds of fortune when he meets a mysterious and darkly beautiful gladiator from lands beyond Hadrian's Wall...





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this one came from. I guess I've been reading too many Roman legion epics while also itching to write a darkfic lately. I'll start adding historical notes next chapter, but for now, check out my author note after the prologue.

They had the slave strung up between two pillars, naked, outstretched so that Vargo could more easily see the chiseled lines of his chest and stomach, the well-crafted muscles of his thighs and calves, the strength of his arms as he pulled against his chains, even now fighting against captivity. And his face, beautiful even as he snarled around the bit gag in his mouth—he would like to murder them. He could have been the embodiment of Mars or Apollo, a marble statue made flesh.

“He isth very imprethive,” Vargo said, turning to the dealer. “Where did you come by him?”

“Britannia, sir,” the man replied promptly. “We took him when his barbarian brethren ambushed us past the Wall.”

Vargo made a noise of disappointment. “He can’t be too great a warrior if he allowed you to take him so easily.”

“Allowed? No, sir.” The dealer pulled the whip in his hands taut. The slave’s bare body spoke of the whip’s lash more than once. “Lucky, more like. The captain said we should put him to the sword, but I knew he might fetch a handsome price.”

A handsome price indeed. The dealer likely did not even know what he had. He was a solider by profession, not a slaver, and Vargo was sure to offer him far less than the slave’s worth.

“Doesth he sthpeak Latin?”

“I think…enough,” the dealer answered hesitantly. “He seems to understand orders…though he does not obey them.”

“He will need training,” Vargo said. He took a deep breath, miming frustration. If he could convince this man that he was doing him a kindness by taking the slave off his hands for so little money…

“Just some obedience.” The dealer leaned in close and whispered, as if there was anyone to overhear them but the slave. “He’s good with a sword. Had a _gladius_ on him when he attacked us—suppose he got that from some other unfortunate solider—so we know he doesn’t need much training with weapons. We were able to disarm him, but he still took down a man with his bare hands and practically maimed another.”

Vargo looked back at the slave, who pulled against his bonds with renewed energy, as if he could break free and snap their necks. As if it would do him any good even if he could. He was thousands of miles from his homeland. If he tried to run, he would either be killed or subdued and returned. Vargo would have to make sure he understood these things.

“I will take him,” Vargo said. “I think he might be a good match for Euron.”

“Gratius?” the slaver asked. “Is he…? I had heard the family fell on some hard times.”

“Oh, yesth, terrible, that,” Vargo agreed with mock sympathy.

“Is it true Balon sold his only son as a debt slave?”

“I wouldn’t feel too thorry for the lad. From all accounts, he livesth quite comfortably on the Thtark _villa_.”

The dealer blew out a long whistle. “Lucky bastard. While his uncle has to fight in the arena to pay off his debt.”

Vargo grinned at that. “Euron would fight even if he were the wealthiest man in Rome. He’d fight even if he were Caesar himself. The man hasth an appetite for blood.”

The dealer looked to the slave with something akin to alarm. Perhaps a bit of a bond had formed between them on the journey south, like that between a man and an ornery dog. It faded quickly, though, and the man turned back to him. “How much?”

If this barbarian slave could truly unseat Euron, reigning champion of the coliseum, then he was worth his weight in gold. He would pack the stands, to say nothing of the sponsors he’d rake in. “I’ll give you twelve ducats for him,” Vargo said. “And that’s being generouth.”


	2. Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note the first:
> 
> Names: This was the hardest part to translate from the books and show, quite literally. In the end, I decided to give the characters Roman surnames and leave their given names largely as is because 1.) canon names are British Isles-based (Anglo-Saxon, Gaelic, Germanic, etc.) with no obvious Roman counterpart, 2.) giving everyone new names would be hella confusing, and 3.) I'm not entirely comfortable with Roman naming conventions to be that extra. Surnames are explained below. I don't speak any Latin and have only a cursory understanding of its language conventions, so if you see anything wrong, please feel free to correct me.
> 
> Content warning: Given the nature of the fic, I won't be giving individual chapter content warning unless it's something particularly egregious. Just assume there will be casual mentions of gore, sexual violence, sexism, and fairly cavalier attitudes towards institutionalized slavery.

Robb was beautiful, stretched out on the side of the hill, the sunlight giving his hair a fiery glow. He looked like one of those beautiful youths from the Greek stories—Hyacinth or Ganymede, beloved of the gods.

Theon leaned over and kissed him. “If I were a god,” he said, “I would carry you off.”

His fire-headed boy laughed. “Oh, is that right, Jupiter?” They wrestled for a bit, in the grass, until Robb used his weight to pin Theon and roll on top of him, still laughing. “If I were a god…” He paused, and the smile fell from his lips. “If I were a god, we wouldn’t have to hide this.”

“When I’m a free man,” Theon said, and brushed a hand through Robb’s curls, “we won’t have to.”

Theon stared up at his boy, his blue eyes, his freckled cheeks. He had always assumed Fortuna hated him. And certainly when he had learned he was to be sold like some common chattel to pay for his family’s debt, he’d thought it another one of the goddess’s punishments for some misdeed done by his ancestors. But his life at the _villa_ …while it stung to forego the fineries of his old life—his clothes, his private sleeping quarters—he knew there were worse places a young man in his position could end up.

Sandalius Eduardus believed well-treated slaves worked harder, more diligently. Theon ate as well as—perhaps better than—he ever had at his father’s house. He was not used to the housework, though the other slaves said he was given a much lighter load than anyone else. And nobody beat him to bruising when he made a mistake, which was more than he could ever say about his father. It was an irony that, as a citizen-slave, he was more protected from mistreatment than he’d been as a full-fledged citizen in his father’s house.

Theon accepted it with a sort of detached gratitude—he could resent his situation until he was literally sick to his stomach, but he could also appreciate that if he had to spend a period of time serving to pay for his family’s debt, he could hardly hope for better circumstances.

Circumstances that had brought him Robb.

Theon pulled him down for another kiss.

“We should be getting back,” Robb protested, even while acquiescing. “We’ve been gone long enough as it is, and I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“It wouldn’t be anything new.”

“No,” Robb agreed. “You’re always in trouble.”

They stayed on the side of the hill a while longer, exploring each other with hands and lips. Until finally Robb stood up and brushed the grass from his rumpled tunic. Which was stained from their earlier wrestling. Jeyne would not be happy come laundry day. Robb reached down a hand and helped Theon up, and together they raced back towards the _villa_.

The sea was a sparkling blue in the distance. In some ways it was painful, the constant reminder of the islands he had come from, always within sight but never within reach. He would love to have the sting of salt in his nose again, but, he supposed, the fragrance of the hills held its own earthy charm.

The grass was wildly green, until they reached the rows of grapevines. The Sandalius family’s vineyards were well-known for producing grapes so dark they were almost black, and exceptionally suited for wine-making. Theon knew it well. Perhaps better than he should, and Jory was often scolding him for sneaking drinks when he should be working.

Speaking of which, usually you could find at least a dozen workers tending the plants, but Theon could not see any. Unless they were bent down in the dirt. All of them. It seemed unusual, but perhaps Rodrik, the _villicus_ and Jory’s father, had given them a break. It didn’t seem likely, but perhaps he had taken pity on the workers during the heat.

Beyond the endless acres of vineyard sat the Sandalius _villa_ itself, a flat, white structure, its red-tiled roof held aloft by rows of Doric columns. The Sandalii, despite being quite wealthy, were not an ostentatious lot, nor, it seemed, were their ancestors who had built the _villa_. Theon did not understand it. On the islands, nobles competed amongst themselves to have the finest clothing, the most lavish properties—it was the major reason his father had driven them to debt. And, he was led to believe, the competition on the islands was nothing compared to that in the capital.

As they drew closer, moving through the rows of grapevines, Theon noticed the horses gathered at the _villa_ ’s front gate. “Was your father expecting guests today?” He pointed, and Robb’s brows pinched tight in a frown.

“Not that I know of. Certainly not anyone who would require a guard.”

There were several soldiers attending the horses, dressed in the armor of the Praetorian Guard. They could have just been escorting an important guest, but the shields and spears at their sides told of something else. Theon wondered if Robb had the same sinking feeling in his gut. Of course he had to, but he continued on anyway with a stern set to his face.

They stopped and tensed when they heard screaming, and several sets of footsteps running towards them. A male voice hollered, “Get back here, bitch!”

Robb turned to Theon and motioned for him to get down, but when Robb poked his head forward to investigate, Theon joined him. He would not hide while Robb ventured into potential danger. He was a poor slave, after all, and not given to following orders. Robb shot him an annoyed look, but couldn’t reprimand him, because at that moment, several figures were flashing past them.

It took Theon a second to recognize Jeyne, the young laundress he teased on occasion…sometimes…more than he should. She was a slight little thing, and fast, but not faster than the hulking armored figures bearing down on her. One of the soldiers—also dressed in Praetorian red—caught her by her hair and yanked her back so harshly Theon was sure her neck would snap. It must not have, because she continued to shriek as the man’s other hand grabbed at her upper arm, so large it wrapped all the way around.

The other guard laughed as he drew near. “For a slave, you’re not very good at following orders,” he said, and grabbed at the collar of her shift. “When your betters give you an order, _you follow it_.” He ripped, tearing all the way to her waist. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

Theon turned to Robb, only to find he was no longer there, but rather had pushed his way through the vines to confront the men. Like some fucking hero. Theon cursed and followed after him.

“You!” Robb cried, and the two men spun, hands going to the swords at their sides. “Unhand her.”

Theon saw the men taking in Robb’s clothing, deciding he was someone of note and not another slave. “Who are you?” the one who had ripped Jeyne’s shift demanded.

“Sandalius Robb, eldest son of Sandalius Eduardus, whose _villa_ you are currently trespassing on. Which would make the woman you are attacking my charge, so I would appreciate it if you unhand her.”

The two men looked at each other, conferring. Then, the larger man tossed Jeyne to the ground. She landed in the dirt, where she huddled up and grasped at the tatters of her clothes to cover herself. The short man drew his sword. “Sandalius Robb, your family has been found guilty of treason against the Empire.”

“What?” Robb blinked.

“Ridiculous,” Theon said. “Found guilty? Without a trial? On whose authority?”

“On Tribune Leonius Tywin’s authority,” the short man responded, then with a sneer, “Not that you need to know. It looks like you don’t train your slaves very well here at _Villa Sandalius_ , do you?”

Theon gritted his teeth. Swallowing his humiliation had never been his strong suit, but one he’d become serviceable at since joining the Sandalius household. At least he didn’t tell the man to go fuck himself. Robb did that instead.

“Go fuck yourself.” Robb curled his hands into fists. “Get off my family’s estate. Now!”

The shorter man tightened his grip on his sword. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me.” Robb took a step forward, even as Theon reached out to draw him back. “I don’t know whose orders you’re here on, and I don’t care. The Sandalii are exemplary citizens, and I can bring a hundred men to vouch for our name. These charges you speak of…my father will deal with them in the Senate, but until then, you have no power here and are trespassing.”

“So…you’re resisting arrest.”

Theon tightened his grip on Robb’s shoulder in warning, willing him to judge the situation. _They’re armed, Robb, and you’re not_.

Robb narrowed his eyes. “Absolutely.”

“Was hoping you’d say that,” the shorter man said, grinning wickedly. “Then we can deal with you just like we dealt with your old man.”

“What?” Theon saw the change to Robb’s face—from not understanding, to vaguely understanding, to understanding—confusion, uncertainty, fear…anger, as the implication hit. “What did you do to my father!?”

The strike came not from the short man, but from the large one. Without warning, he stepped forward and thrust his sword into Robb’s chest. Jeyne screamed.

Something warm spattered across Theon’s face. He wouldn’t realize it was blood until later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names:
> 
> Greyjoy = Gratius. In addition to sounding a bit like Greyjoy, this is an actual surname that comes from the root word meaning "grace," which I figured was closer than the Latin word for "joy" or "happy," which is _felix_.
> 
> Stark = Sandalius. Means something like "true wolf" or "wolf truth." I figured it was fitting.
> 
> Lannister = Leonius. Easiest translation, this name means "of the lion."


	3. ii

Theon had heard men being stabbed before. They didn’t cry out, not the way you’d expect. Sometimes they didn’t make any noise. And sometimes they let out a noise like that—an _oof_ —more surprise than anything, like they had not quite realized what had happened to them.

Robb let out an _oof_ as the large man twisted his blade and yanked the sword free from his chest, covered in gore.

For a moment, Theon was only aware of Robb slumping to his knees. He chased him to the ground, grabbing him up in his arms, trying to steady him. His hands came away soaked, red. His mind was blank.

Robb coughed. Flecks of blood spattered his lips. He was looking straight into Theon’s face, but couldn’t seem to see.

“No, no,” Theon murmured, because that might undo this…this thing that had happened. He could turn back time’s flow. He _could_. “No, Robb.”

There was laughter in his ears. Coming from…somewhere. Somewhere far away. Was this a dream? Yes, a dream. He needed to wake up. He needed…

A hand latched onto his hair and yanked him back, harshly, pulling Robb from his arms. Robb collapsed onto the ground, still staring up at the place Theon had been. Theon screamed and reached out for him, fought back against the hand trying to pull him away.

“Kill him and be done with it,” a voice was saying. “Unless you don’t want to share the girl.”

“Do I _look_ like I fuck men?”

“What are you talking about? You fuck men all the time.”

“With all this noise they’re making, I’m liable to kill them both and fuck neither!”

“What in the name of Jupiter is going on here?” This last from a new voice. New footsteps coming towards them, hobnailed sandals crunching on the dirt.

“Captain Leonius, sir!”

The pulling hand was gone, and Theon collapsed back onto Robb, cradling his head. He was dimly aware of the newcomer circling around him, but as long they didn’t try to pull him away, it didn’t matter who it was.

“Which one of you killed Sandalius Robb?”

“I gave the order, sir. He was—”

Theon heard the slide of a sword being drawn, the sound of sharp metal entering flesh. The shorter soldier did not make a noise, just a thud as he fell, stabbed through the gap in his armor at his throat. His dead eyes also gazed out at Theon, but Theon did not gaze back.

_This isn’t real._

“You, legionary,” the newcomer said. “Take these slaves back to the _villa_.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do not harm them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Another hand, stronger than the first, yanked Theon up to his feet. “Up.”

Theon didn’t register it as a command. He needed to be by Robb’s body. If he could see it, feel it, he might be able to understand what part of it wasn’t real, or how he could undo it. His will wasn’t strong enough though. Not to turn back time, and not to fight the mountain of a man hauling him away.

The soft dirt gave way underfoot. Theon watched his feet, the rhythm as they sank into the earth that had grown Sandalius grapes for over a hundred years. He heard Jeyne sniffling, but he could not find the will to lift his head and seek her out. He felt like a hollowed out shell, like he had been the one gutted and not Robb.

As he stared down, the black soil turned to grass, which turned to packed dirt and then to tile. The white tiles of _Villa Sandalius_. Except now there were splashes of red, running like rivers through the grout. He did lift his head then.

Several bodies were laid out where they had been cut down, running, not offering any sort of fight to justify the slashes to their backs. The Sandalius _villa_ was an isolated homestead, located in the peaceful countryside many miles from the city and staffed largely by women and old men. Any violence brought here would be a slaughter.

Some of the numbness began to recede. Who were these men to come in and kill innocent men and women? What was this supposed treason, then? The Sandalii were honorable, to a fault. Nobody would ever believe them capable of treason. Where was the Emperor’s justice? Fuck, where was the gods’ justice?

No just god would have allowed Robb to be cut down like a rabid dog. Unless it was Fortuna, who hated him for some reason he couldn’t guess at.

The soldier dragged him and Jeyne, both unresisting, to the atrium, where the wailing of women and children filled the open air. It appeared most of the _villa_ ’s slaves had been gathered here, herded up like sheep. Theon and Jeyne were shoved amongst them, two more lambs.

The cries around him faded into an indistinct noise, a low thrum that beat painfully against his eardrums but which he was barely aware of. He was more aware of the way Jeyne clung to him, one hand tightly on his upper arm, the other trying to hold her tattered dress up. Thoughtlessly, Theon undid the cinch at his waist and handed the cord to Jeyne.

“Thank you,” she murmured, so quietly he could only tell from reading her lips. She pulled the cord up under her arms and tied the torn cloth up to cover herself.

They waited in the stifling heat, surrounded on all sides by warm bodies, for what felt an eternity. Theon lifted his head simply to see the blue of the sky instead of the frightened and weeping faces around them. What would happen now? Nobody around them knew.

His legs had long grown numb by the time he became aware of a rustling, an excitement among the slaves. The soldiers guarding them stepped back to allow a man to enter. He was an older man, dressed in tribune’s purple. He came to stand near Theon and Jeyne, though he took no interest in either of them. He seemed to take no interest in any of the slaves, his eyes sweeping them as if they were farm equipment.

“You are doubtless wondering what has happened,” he said, and all around, the crying died to weak sniffles as everyone turned to listen. “The Sandalii have been declared traitors for conspiring to overthrow the Emperor. If any of you know where Arya, Bran, and Rickon are hiding, step forth now. If it comes to my attention that any of you have been harboring these traitors, you will be tortured and executed. Am I understood?”

Nobody spoke up.

“Very well,” the tribune said. “I am Tribune Leonius Tywin. I will be your master until you are redistributed to your new stations. I will broach no disobedience.”

“Where do you suppose they will send us?” Jeyne asked, pulling on Theon’s arm.

Theon couldn’t say. For either of them. He had not paid off his father’s debt, but he was set to be freed within the year. Surely they would take that into consideration when placing him.

Tywin leaned towards the nearest guard and whispered. The soldier nodded and motioned to the two soldiers behind him. They fanned out, moving amongst the slaves, occasionally stopping and pulling one aside. They were deliberate in their choices, picking mostly young women and the occasional young man. Theon felt his stomach churn.

He tried to keep his head down as one of the soldiers passed by him, but he must have done a poor job of being inconspicuous, because the man singled in on him. He grabbed Theon’s chin and forced his face up, turning his head this way and that as he studied him. “You’ll do,” he said. “And you,” he added, patting Jeyne on the head like a dog. “Come with me.”

Jeyne clung tighter to Theon’s arm. “Do you…think it’s good news?” she asked. Her quivering voice betrayed her doubt.

“No,” Theon answered. “I don’t.”

When they were too slow to the move, the soldier grabbed Theon’s arm and hauled him forward, and Jeyne with him. He forced them to march to where the other chosen slaves had been cordoned off. Theon and Jeyne were the last ones before Tywin held up his hand to stay the soldiers going back for more. “That will be enough. We’ll send this lot to Baelius. The profits from selling the rest will be distributed among the men.”

One of the soldiers cheered, but quickly fell silent when Tywin swung his disapproving gaze to the man.

Theon was in a panic. Baelius. He knew that name, and what sort of slaves he would require.

“Sir.”

If Tywin’s gaze had been disapproving of the man who cheered, it was downright scathing towards the slave who had spoken to him, unprompted and out of turn. But Theon couldn’t keep quiet. This was a misunderstanding, and the tribune had to be told of it.

“You can’t put me in a brothel,” he said. At the word “brothel,” a few of the cordoned-off slaves began to weep anew. “I…I’m a citizen, sir.”

Tywin’s expression did not change.

“I’m a _nexus_ , sir, a debt slave, but I’m still a citizen.”

“And how is this any concern of mine?”

That hit like a slap in the face.

Theon recoiled as if he _had_ been slapped. “Be…because you can’t treat a citizen like a pleasure slave. It’s…I have rights.”

“Not as far as I’m concerned.”

Theon’s mouth flapped. “But—”

“And if you keep speaking, I will have you flogged.”

“Perhaps we should hear him out, Tribune.” Another older man with a similarly grim—nay, _grimmer_ —face than Tywin stepped forward. He wore a legate’s cloak. A high-ranking man, then, just under a tribune.

“Don’t tell me you’re interested in this one, Roose,” Tywin said dryly.

“For myself? No,” the legate answered. “But I am looking for an additional household servant.”

 _Yes_ , Theon thought. “I am quite dependable,” Theon lied, and perhaps if Jeyne wasn’t in such terror, she would have laughed. “I will work hard, sir.”

The legate did not smile, but Theon thought he saw a tiny glimmer of approval in the man’s eyes. “I would like to take him,” he said at last. “You may keep my portion of the slaves’ profits in return.”

Tywin inclined his head, giving Theon permission to go with his new master.

His new master tutted when Jeyne followed behind. “No girls. I don’t take girls.”

Theon looked from him to Jeyne, who stared up at him with pleading eyes. “She’s a good worker, sir,” he said. “She keeps the laundry very white, and I’ve never heard her complain.”

“I don’t take girls,” the legate repeated. “They have…complications.”

“I won’t be any trouble, sir,” Jeyne said.

“Insolent girl.” Tywin grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and pulled her off of Theon. She shrieked but knew better than to fight back as she was shoved back into the slaves destined for Baelius’s whorehouse. She fell to her knees and sat like that, still pleading with her eyes.

_I’m sorry, Jeyne. There’s nothing I can do._

He felt as if his neck were a rusty hinge as he turned his gaze from her to his new master. Legate Roose. Theon hoped he was kinder than his visage appeared. But…he had saved Theon, heard him out, so there must be some compassion to the man.

Numbly, he followed the man from the atrium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baelish = Baelius. This isn't a real name, as far as I can tell.


	4. iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a preemptive shout-out to [theonsfavouritetoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonsfavouritetoy/pseuds/theonsfavouritetoy), fellow Ancient Rome buff and avid Greysnow enthusiast, for helping me with historical world-building and plotting Part II.

“Theon, what’s wrong?” A thumb brushed over Theon’s cheek. “You’re crying.”

Theon blinked. The sky was bright overhead. The grass beneath him was soft. He turned and saw Robb, radiant in the sunlight, glowing.

They were back on the hillside. He must have fallen asleep. None of it had happened.

“Nothing.” He wiped the tears from his eyes and sat up. “I was having a nightmare.”

“What about?”

“I dreamt you’d been killed.”

Robb laughed. He had an open-mouthed way of laughing, that showed his teeth.

Theon was overcome. He threw himself at Robb, fell on top of him. Felt the solidity of his body underneath him. The warmth and realness of him. “Please don’t laugh,” he begged. “I don’t know what I would do if you were killed. You’re the only person I would ever let own me.”

Robb looked up at him, quite seriously. “I’m fine, Theon. I’m right here.” He laid his callused palm against Theon’s cheek, and Theon leaned into it. “And when you’re a free man, you won’t have to let anyone own you.”

“No,” Theon agreed, “but you still would. Own me.”

He bent down to kiss Robb, to seal this moment as forever real and leave the horrid dream behind. But the lips he captured were not soft and warm, but cold, like something dragged from the sea. Theon pulled back in surprise. Robb’s lips had never…

The glow of his face was gone. His skin was ashen, gray. His eyes stared up but did not see. The grass was black dirt, soft under his knees. And his hands, covered in red. He stared. He was straddling a corpse.

 _No, no, no_.

_Fortuna, no._

_Fortuna, why?_

The hillside shook, as if the entire earth were trying to buck him, and Theon bolted awake. The carriage bounced again, and his head banged against the seat. He winced.

Legate Vulcanius Mettius Roose, his new master, lifted his head. “You are awake,” he noted.

“Forgive me, sir.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. If I disapproved of you sleeping, I would have woken you.” Roose turned his gaze back out the window. They seemed to have left the rolling hills of the countryside behind them, as buildings appeared more frequently, and more crowded together. They were doubtless heading into the city.

Rubbing his head, Theon sat up. He was quite sore from being manhandled; the spot on his arm where the large soldier had grabbed him was quickly bruising over. But mostly he ached and felt empty inside.

“May I…ask a question?”

Roose had very cold, pale eyes, not a common color. “I will allow it as long as you don’t make a habit of it,” he replied. “I assume you wish to know what’s become of your acquaintances.”

Theon nodded.

“Sandalius Eduardus is dead. He was killed during the raid, as were his wife and eldest son.”

Theon winced.

Roose reclined in his seat, opposite Theon. “You were close with the son?”

Was there any point in lying?

“Yes, sir. I served him.”

“Not very well, I take it, as he is dead.”

That landed like a punch to the gut. But not a punch Theon was inclined to simply take. “I was there when he died! The soldiers—they were armed and we—I didn’t…” He stared at his hands. The blood had been washed from them, but he could still feel it, smell it. “There was nothing I could do.”

“You should have kept him out of trouble. He should not have been engaging with armed soldiers.” Roose folded his hands in his lap. “That will be your primary task in my household: keeping my misbegotten son out of trouble.”

Theon wasn’t sure what that meant. He was still reeling from the implication that he had gotten Robb killed through his negligence.

“Sansa is alive.”

He looked up.

“Eduardus’s oldest daughter.”

“Is she…?” Images flashed through his mind. It might be frowned upon, but everyone knew what soldiers did to girls.

“She is unhurt,” Roose said. “Captain Leonius has personally vouched for her well-being for the moment.”

“ _Captain_ Leonius?” Not the Tribune Leonius Tywin, then? No, now that he mentioned it, he vaguely remembered the soldiers who had killed Robb addressing a Captain Leonius.

“Leonius Jaime. I am surprised the lad has not washed out of the Guard, myself, but any man who tells you nepotism won’t get you far in life is either a liar or completely lacking wits.”

Leonius Jaime. Then that was the man who had killed Robb’s murderer. Theon could only feel hatred towards the man, for robbing him of any chance at vengeance.

“So…Sansa is safe?”

“For the time being. What will become of her?” Roose spread his hands. “Who can say?”

“And the other children?”

“Fled. No one can find them.” Something like disgust came over Roose’s face, though not enough to truly change his stony expression. “If I were the tribune, I’d have the lot of them flogged for allowing children to escape from under their noses.”

Theon wondered where they could have gone—Arya, Bran, Rickon. He did not recall seeing the boys’ slave, Osha, in the atrium, so it was possible they had escaped with her. And Arya…Arya was too slippery to be caught. More like a feral cat than a girl.

“As for the rest of the household…those who offered resistance were, unfortunately, killed. Those who had the wits to obey, like yourself, will be placed in new occupations.”

“Like brothels?” Theon said. The image of Jeyne’s face flashed before his eyes, faster than he could rethink speaking at all.

Roose inclined his head, scolding Theon for his insolence with his cold stare. “That’s merely the first portion of Baelius’s payment, for his role in helping weed out the traitors.”

So, it was Baelius—Littlefinger—who had brought testimony against the Sanadlius family. There were plenty of families who envied the Sadalii, but Theon had heard rumors from the other slaves that Littlefinger had long been infatuated with Eduardus’s wife. Perhaps he had not anticipated them killing Catelyn in the raid.

If it was Littlefinger who had called the raid, and gotten Robb murdered, then Theon had a new direction to aim his revenge. Once he was a free man, of course.

Now the buildings came so often and so pressed together that they choked out any signs of green. They slowed to a crawl as the paved streets around them became thick with people, vehicles, and animals—heading to market, heading to pray, going about their lives as if they still had lives to go about. A hundred smells and sounds—many of them unpleasant—saturated the air and stung Theon’s eyes to watering. This was the capital, the beating heart of the Empire, and they were at the heart of the heart—the _forum_.

One building rose above the others, even the temples to the gods themselves. The rounded edifice of the Coliseum, with its stacked rows of arches. The largest amphitheater in the known world.

“Have you ever attended a match?”

Theon blinked and realized Roose had caught him staring. “No, sir.”

Roose’s nostrils flared ever-so-slightly. “Pageantry for the peasants. Nonetheless, my son quite enjoys it. I’m sure you will be accompanying him often.”

Theon nodded in understanding.

They rode in silence the rest of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bolton = Vulcanius, meaning "of Vulcan," the Roman god of ~~Spock from Star Trek~~ volcanoes.


	5. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys, we're finally meeting Ramsay.

Roose lived in a modest _domus_ away from the bustle of the _forum_ —modest compared to the _dom_ _ūs_ Theon knew, and practically miniscule compared to the _Villa_ _Sandalius_. That’s what it was: a shrunken-down version of the _villa_ , down to the layout of the atrium that welcomed guests into the miniature courtyard.

Theon didn’t immediately see any servants, but a household this small—and without the rolling estate with its farmland and vineyards—would necessarily have a smaller staff. Still, the home was immaculately kept, not a speck of dust about the place, and the smells of the city did not permeate here. It was surprisingly unostentatious for a man of Roose’s standing, and a legate at that. There were the usual family heirlooms, the ancestral busts, the shrine to the household gods, but it was all rather…minimal. Uncluttered. Theon gathered that Roose was a man who enjoyed order above all things.

Their footsteps echoed about the empty hall as Roose led Theon into his new home.

 _Temporary home_ , Theon reminded himself. He would be freed within the year.

“Ramsay,” Roose said in what might generously be called a raised voice. He took three measured breaths, before sighing, as if in great disappointment. “Damon.” His voice so level that it couldn’t possibly have carried very far. Nonetheless, a moment later, the sound of heavy footsteps came down the hall to meet them.

The slave Roose had summoned was a brute of a man. With his musculature and blond hair, Theon thought he must surely be a barbarian from Germania or Gaul. “Welcome home, sir,” the man said in fluent, if unrefined, Latin.

Roose waved his hand, dismissing the niceties. “Is Ramsay in?”

The slave hesitated. “Yes, sir.”

“Then kindly fetch him. And remind him that I expect him to come when I call him.”

“Yes, sir,” Damon said and lumbered off.

Roose folded his arms across his chest. “I apologize. It seems my son has decided to set a poor example for your first day.” Then, more to himself, “One would think that boy would be better at taking orders.”

Theon wasn’t sure what he could have meant by that, but he didn’t intend to ask. They waited in awkward silence for a good minute or two before the footsteps returned, two sets this time. The young man accompanying Damon was also a brute. Though not as tall or as wide as Damon, he was quite muscled. Not the corded muscle of a soldier, but the bulk of a man who worked out in the fields. At first Theon thought he might be a slave dressed in a patrician’s toga, but the cold color of his eyes marked him as the ill-spoken-of son of Roose. Those cold eyes narrowed when they landed on Roose, and the young man’s fleshy lips twisted in a grimacing smile.

“Father.” He inclined his head. “Back from weeding out traitors so soon?”

Roose regarded him a moment, holding him there with his eyes until the young man began to squirm. “Whether you expected me back later or not, you know to come when you are called.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

Theon jumped at the _thwack_. Ramsay cupped his hand over the ear Roose had smacked, wincing.

“I know there’s nothing wrong with your hearing, boy,” Roose said, lowering his hand. “I’m not sure you even deserve the gift I brought you.”

Ramsay’s cold eyes flicked to Theon, as if noticing him for the first time. His expression was unreadable. “You brought me a new plaything?”

 _Plaything_?

“I brought you something to keep you out of trouble.” Roose placed a hand on Theon’s shoulder and steered him forward.

Ramsay scratched at his chin as he studied Theon. Despite his seemingly uninterested gaze, Theon had never felt so scrutinized in his life, like he was an insect being pried apart by a curious child. He was more than relieved when Ramsay turned his eyes towards Roose.

“Are you trying to bribe me for good behavior?”

“Did you mother not teach you to accept gifts with gratitude?”

Ramsay’s face darkened. It was not subtle at all, and Theon expected Roose to deliver another slap. But Roose didn’t react to it at all. He simply prodded Theon towards Ramsay. Theon didn’t want to go. Not while Ramsay was making that expression.

“Show your new slave to his quarters and acquaint him with your routine.”

Dark look still in place, Ramsay jerked his head for Theon to follow. “This way.”

Theon gave an uncertain look to Roose, but Roose offered nothing in return. No orders, no advice, no words of comfort. It seemed ownership had officially been handed off to his son, and Theon was no longer one of his priorities. With a feeling of dread building in his gut, Theon followed.

Surprisingly, Ramsay didn’t lead him to the slave quarters but rather to a lavish room obviously meant for a noble.  “This is my room,” he explained as he reclined on the bed. “You’ll stay here with me, to attend to my needs.”

Theon looked around in confusion. He had been granted nicer sleeping arrangements than what the many of other slaves had at the Sandalius _villa_ , but even he had not been allowed such private quarters, and definitely had not shared Robb’s room.

“Well?” Ramsay said. “Don’t just stand there like an idiot. Attend my needs.”

Theon crossed the threshold into the room. “What would you have of me?”

He was slightly irked when Ramsay took a moment to think. Why be so insistent if he didn’t have an order ready?

Finally he said, “You can go ahead and kneel.”

“Kneel?”

“Yes. Right here.” Ramsay gestured vaguely at the side of the bed. “On the floor.”

Theon was not as quick to respond as he should have been. “Very well,” he replied airily, when he finally did reply. He crossed the room and knelt down next to the bed with as much dignity and nonchalance as he could manage. The floor was hard and cold on his knees. This was definitely an act meant to humiliate him. Robb certainly never would have given him such an order.

He nearly jumped when he felt a hand on his head. Ramsay was leaning over the side of the bed, running fingers idly through his hair. “There, now, aren’t you pretty like that. On your knees.”

A shudder ran up Theon’s spine. He looked around the sparse room, mapping out the place where they would put his bed. Surely Ramsay did not expect them to share? Surely Ramsay did not think…his father had bought him his own personal prostitute. If he was operating under that misapprehension, Theon would correct him. Even if it meant talking back to his master, he would not accept such treatment.

“What is your name?” Ramsay asked, pulling Theon from his silently boiling indignation.

“Gratius Marcus Quartinius Theon.”

“You have a long name for a slave.”

“I’m a citizen.”

Ramsay chuckled darkly. “I don’t like your name. It’s too long.”

“You may call me Theon if my full name offends you so badly.”

“I don’t like that either. Too Greek.” The hand on his hair stilled. “From now on, your name is Reek.”

Theon scowled. Reek? What sort of name was that? “My name is Theon.”

A sharp pain erupted across his face. He reeled back, shocked, a hand rising to the place on his jaw where Ramsay had slapped him.

Ramsay sat up on the bed and loomed over him. “Your name is Reek.”

Theon stared up at him. “You struck me.”

“I’ll strike you again.” Ramsay swung his legs over the side of the mattress, a clear threat.

Theon, still on his knees, flinched back. “You can’t hit me. I’m—”

Ramsay made good on his threat. He rocketed to his feet and crossed the sparse distance between them, grabbing Theon’s hair and giving him a harsh shake. “I can do whatever I want to you. You’re mine.”

Theon stared up at him. Any protest died on his lips. It breached all manner of etiquette and decency to strike a slave who was a fellow citizen, but in that instant, Ramsay was right. He _could_ do whatever he wanted. There was no one to physically stop him.

So Theon nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Call me _dominus_.” Ramsay gave him another hard shake.

“Yes, _dominus_ ,” Theon said, almost without thinking.

“And what’s your name?”

“Reek.”

Ramsay released him, roughly throwing him at the floor, and stomped back to the bed.

Theon watched him carefully. He could not stay in his house. He would not serve a master who treated him like a common slave. As a citizen, he had recourse. Not here, in this room, alone with this horrid man. But he could avail himself to Roose. No doubt he would be horrified to hear of what had just occurred.

So as Theon scooted back into position, playing the obedient slave, he was already planning his complaint. It was all he could do to disguise his hatred as he looked up at Ramsay. _I will make you sorry you ever laid a hand on me._


	6. v

The family ate together in the _triclinium_ , which was how Theon learned that the family consisted solely of Ramsay and Roose. A reclining couch for both of them, plus one to spare. Of course, that spot wasn’t meant for Theon. Ramsay ordered him to stand at his side while plates of food were brought in and spread out on the table.

Theon felt odd, standing there, unsure what to do or how to conduct himself. He hadn’t eaten with the Sandalii during his servitude at their _villa_ , and he surely hadn’t expected to eat with the masters of his new house.

“Is there a reason your new slave is joining us?” Roose asked, giving voice to Theon’s thoughts.

Ramsay leaned back on his couch. “He’s attending me.”

“We have slaves for that.”

“Yes, but I want him to do it.” Ramsay gestured to the table. “My wine. I don’t feel like reaching.”

Biting down on his anger like he had before, Theon did as he was bid and lifted the glass delicately so the dark red wine wouldn’t slosh. Then he held it out to Ramsay.

Ramsay quirked his lips. “Into my mouth.” And he tilted his head back.

Theon looked to Roose and was pleased to see displeasure on the older man’s face. Clearly he didn’t approve of this show. But neither did he stop it. He simply looked away, as if in embarrassment.

“Are you stalling or simply deaf?” Ramsay demanded.

Withholding a sigh, Theon leaned in and tilted the glass forward into Ramsay’s waiting mouth. The rich wine ran like blood down his throat, overflowing and dribbling down his chin. Theon tried not to think of the blood on his own hands, the blood bubbling up from Robb’s chest.

Ramsay sputtered and sat upright and wiped at his face with the sleeve of his toga. “You idiot! Are you trying to drown me?”

Theon recoiled and nearly dropped the cup from his hands as he hurried to right it. “I…sorry.”

He half expected Ramsay to strike him again—half hoped for it, even, in front of Roose as a witness—but Ramsay only sprang to his feet. He looked like he’d just come in from butchering a cow in his fine toga, covered in splotches of red down his front. “Help me clean this mess up.”

Roose held up a hand. “There’s no need for that.”

“Excuse me?” Ramsay scoffed.

Turning to Theon, Roose asked, “Have you ever done laundry in your life?”

Theon blinked. “No, sir?”

Back to Ramsay. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage forcing him to do tasks he’s unsuited for?”

“Unsuited for? Any idiot can tip a glass.”

“And any idiot can drink wine without spilling it all over themselves. Go clean yourself up.”

“But I—”

“You dressed and cleaned yourself for sixteen years, did you not?” Roose did not raise his voice, but his tone was noticeably sharper. “Or have you forgotten how to do these simple tasks as well?”

Ramsay’s nostrils flared, and for a moment Theon was sure he would lunge across the couch and start beating his father. He didn’t though, even as the color of his face rose to match the color of the wine stains on his clothes. He stood there, fists clenched and trembling, until finally he stormed from the room, shoving aside a slave on his way out.

Roose let out a long breath through his nose and then reclined back on his couch. “A petulant child, my son.”

“Sir.” Now that they were alone, Theon had his chance. He sidled up to Roose, keeping his eyes down in a show of respect. “May I speak?”

“You are making a habit of it, aren’t you?” Roose regarded him with uninterested distaste. He took a sip of wine before gesturing him to continue.

“Your son…” Theon lifted his face just so, hoping Roose would see the swollen redness of his cheek where Ramsay had caught him. “He struck me.”

“Yes, he has a temper.”

Theon blinked. “Is that all you have to say?”

He should not have said that. It was backbiting. It was an accusation. But he was shocked by Roose’s disregard.

“What more would you have me say?” Roose took another calm sip. The news of his son’s violence did not seem to faze him, and neither did his slave’s backbiting. “I would advise in the future not to make him angry. You might start by reining in your impertinent tongue.”

“He can’t treat me like a common slave,” Theon said. “I’m a citizen of the Empire.”

“So you’ve told me.” Roose set his cup down, and Theon read an immense amount of fatherly frustration in the gesture. “Regardless, you are a slave and you are expected to do as you are told. You agreed to this when you agreed to become a _nexus_.”

Theon didn’t really remember agreeing to it. He hadn’t been given so much a choice as an ultimatum: Do this or be cast out.

It was almost as if Roose could read his mind, because his next words were, “Did your father ever strike you?”

Unconsciously, Theon felt at his face where Ramsay had hit him. “Yes, when I disobeyed him.”

“Fathers must discipline unruly children, just like masters must discipline unruly slaves. You were treated too laxly by Sandalius Eduardus and his family, perhaps because of your situation.”

_Don’t talk about them_ , Theon wanted to say. _They were a hundred, a thousand times greater than your house will ever be and you were jealous of them_. He didn’t, though. He just cast his eyes at the floor. He had won all the sympathy he could possibly hope for from this man.

He sank back on his haunches, resisting the urge to grumble darkly. Nor did he glare daggers when Ramsay returned a few minutes later, soiled toga replaced with a tunic, but still with the same foul mood about him.

The rest of the meal, Theon hurried to do as Ramsay bid, holding his plate, feeding him bits of food, wiping away anything that fell out of his mouth—and he was quite the messy eater—attending him with as much care as he could manage. Ramsay didn’t commend his efforts at all, but neither did he scold him, though it was clear he still had not forgotten _or_ forgiven the earlier incident with the wine. Mostly he traded the occasionally barbed word with his father, who deflected easily.

Theon listened and watched and thought, _Very well, I will do as you say, old man. I will obey your son’s every whim and not give him a reason to hit me again. If I must, I will become a model slave and I will survive my servitude. And when I am a free man once more, first I will kill Littlefinger and take everything he owns, and then I will come for the both of you._


	7. vi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings abound in this chapter. Please acquaint yourself with the tags.

Ramsay retired early for the night . As they entered his room, Theon noticed that a second bed had _not_ been brought in for him. He sincerely hoped Ramsay didn’t intend for them to share his bed. He’d rather sleep on the floor.

“Reek.” That _name_. Part of Theon had hoped it had been a test earlier, a jape. Apparently not. Ramsay lifted his arms expectantly, and when Theon didn’t react right away—not sure _how_ to react—he sighed in frustration. “Undress me for bed.”

With some hesitation, Theon approached and reached for the tunic’s cinch.

“You ruined my nice toga,” Ramsay said conversationally as he worked to untie it. “It was quite expensive, you know.”

_Then perhaps you should not have been wearing it to supper_. Theon didn’t say this, of course. Robb would never have worn his toga in his day-to-day activities. Togas were for impressing others. If Ramsay had meant to impress his new slave with his fancy clothes, he had struck well off from his aim.

Theon finished with the cinch, and Ramsay lifted his arms over his head so that Theon could pull his tunic off. It was awkward, because Ramsay was taller than him and refused to bend to make it easier. But finally Theon got it off, and Ramsay was left only in his undergarments. His body was obviously quite strong, though more like an ox than an athlete. Stocky, and built from hard work, like the slaves who had worked the fields at the Sandalius _villa_.

He didn’t want to stare—or be caught staring—so he quickly averted his eyes and pretended to take great interest in folding the tunic over his arm.

“You may put that in the chest,” Ramsay said with a dismissive wave of his hand, and he stalked over to the bed.

Theon obliged. Bent down, he heard the bed groan as Ramsay settled down onto it. _Where will he make me sleep_? he wondered again with growing panic. He finished stowing the tunic, and as he rose and turned, he was startled to see Ramsay sitting at the edge of the bed, leaning back on his arms, and expectant look on his face as he jerked his chin towards his crotch.

“I think you should suck my cock, for ruining my toga.”

Theon stood and stared for a moment.

“No,” he replied.

Ramsay’s lips twisted. “I’m sorry, did something about my wording imply that was a request?”

Theon gritted his teeth. “No, I’m not going to do it.” He would feed this man, change his clothes, follow him around for a puppy as he attended him, even bathe him if need be. But he was not going to going to suck his dick. And if it earned him a beating, then so be it. “I’m not a whore.”

Ramsay launched to his feet, and Theon couldn’t help but flinch. The open-handed strike caught him on the cheek, snapping his head back. At least he was prepared for it this time. But not the hand that tangled in his hair and yanked his head back before it was done spinning.

“You’re whatever I say you to are,” Ramsay said. “If I say you’re Reek, you’re Reek. If I say you’re a whore, you’re a whore. Or didn’t I teach you well enough earlier? _You’re. Mine_.”

Theon’s head swam, but his resolve remained. “Perhaps you can suck your own cock… _dominus_.”

He was prepared, but the next strike still came as a shock, a jolt of pain as Ramsay’s closed fist collided with his nose. His world erupted into coppery pain, and when the ringing between his ears faded, he was aware of wetness cascading down his lip, down the back of his throat, where he could taste the bitterness of his own blood. He sputtered. His face felt like it had been caved in.

“The next time you open your mouth,” Ramsay said through gritted teeth, “it will be to take my dick.”

The hand in his hair was pushed down. _I’ll shave my head_ , Theon thought viciously to himself. _No one will ever be able to control me this way again._ His knees hit the floor, and he stared blearily straight ahead as Ramsay used his free hand—knuckles stained red with Theon’s blood—to undo the tie to his leather undergarment, which fell away to reveal a member already halfway to hard.

“Now.” Ramsay’s brushed his cock against Theon’s cheek. “Suck it.”

Theon gave a snort, which caught in his broken nose. “I hope that’s not meant to impress me. Robb’s was nicer. That’s just a misshapen club between your legs.”

The next blow caught him in the jaw. His teeth clanked together like dice in a gambler’s cup, and he felt it all the way up in his cheeks. His lips flared with cutting pain and his mouth _filled_ with blood. Something rattled around on his tongue. He spat it all out on instinct, coughing, retching. He opened his eyes to bits of ivory white amidst the red.

In panic, he ran his tongue along his top row of teeth, and felt the empty spaces there. One…with another chipped to a jagged edge.

There was almost no pain. He was aware of it, distantly, but mostly he felt like he was watching the events unfold like a theatrical performance in front of him. When it was all done, he’d be able to get up from his seat and go home, where his teeth would be fine and Robb would be waiting for him.

His eyes were forcibly lifted from the floor as the hand in his hair hand upwards. “Open your mouth or I’ll knock the rest of your teeth out and make you swallow them.”

Theon stared. He didn’t doubt that Ramsay would do it. His broken nose would heal, even if a bit crookedly. Bruises and cuts would fade. But his teeth…

Numbly, he opened his mouth wide. Ramsay shoved himself in.

Theon choked as Ramsay’s dick hit the back of his throat. He tried to pull away, but the hand in his hair held him fast, pushed him even deeper. “Nothing comes out of your mouth until I say so.”

Panicked, Theon grabbed hold of Ramsay’s thighs, anything to give him leverage. Ramsay allowed it, seemed to enjoy it even, as he hummed softly at the contact. Theon anchored himself, forced his body to relax and his throat to stop seizing up around the flesh forcing its way down. He could do this. He’d taken Robb to the root before and knew how to do it. It was the brutal and unexpected intrusion—not to mention the stinging numbness of his entire face and mouth—that had caught him so unprepared.

He forced down the gagging spasm in his throat, and Ramsay slid down farther with a satisfied groan. “I don’t want to feel your teeth,” he said as the hand in Theon’s hair relaxed, now petting him like a loyal dog. “I know you won’t even _consider_ biting me.”

That honestly hadn’t occurred to Theon in the moment, but now it was all he could think about. Biting down, hard enough to sever the flesh. The way Ramsay would squeal.

His jaw flexed.

_No. If you do it, he’ll kill you_.

He knew it with a certainty. Then he would never be able to save Jeyne and avenge Robb. But those were excuses hiding his cowardice. In truth, he didn’t _want_ to die.

So he set about bobbing his head, ignoring the painful stretching slide of Ramsay’s dick in and out of his throat. The faster he made his master come, the sooner this would be over with. He closed his eyes and prayed to the gods, the entire pantheon, that it would be over soon.

It felt like forever, and eternity, and he had almost completely forgotten himself by the time he felt Ramsay shift and pull away from him. He was confused for a moment—Ramsay hadn’t come—and startled when thick, sticky warmth splattered over his face, coating his eyelashes, running down his chin. He knelt there, taking in deep breaths. And when he reached up to wipe the seed away, Ramsay smacked his hand.

“Keep it. For spilling on my toga.”

Theon let his arm drop and nodded dumbly. He was exhausted, and terrified, and angry, and all of these things warred within him so that he didn’t even know what to do.

“Still think you’re not a whore? You certainly look like one.”

Theon didn’t respond, but Ramsay seemed to understand it was out of shock and not spite this time. With a self-satisfied grunt, he placed a foot on Theon’s bowed head and pushed down. Theon allowed himself to be pressed to the floor.

“You can sleep there tonight, whore. You still need to be punished for talking back to me, but I’ll need to sleep on that one.” And with that, he strutted away.

Theon felt his presence leave like a great stifling shadow had been lifted. He lay there, cheek pressed into the cold tiles, feeling the blood and seed drying on his face, the pulse of his heartbeat where his missing tooth had been. He lay like that until lanterns were snuffed and the room was plunged into darkness. He lay like that until he heard the bed groan once again and the rustling of sheets as Ramsay settled in. He lay like that until Ramsay’s breathing evened and gradually turned to bear-like snoring.

Only then did Theon stir. He lifted himself slowly and crawled on hands and knees, casting looks over his shoulders to the sleeping form on the bed. When he reached the door, he managed to get himself to his legs by leaning against the wall and, as quickly and quietly as he could, slipped into the hallway.


	8. vii

Theon stumbled to the fountain in the courtyard, where he splashed cold water on his face to wash away the blood and seed still clinging to him. Then he sank down and leaned his forehead against the lip of the fountain as pain and emotion began to flood back into him in waves.

He wouldn’t cry, and he held his breath just to keep the tears from coming. He wasn’t normally this weak, but everything was just so… _overwhelming_ , and he was so _exhausted_ and he just wanted to wake up from this nightmare already.

“Hey, are you alright?”

He bolted upright in panic to see the large, brutish, blond slave from before standing several feet away, crouched down and hands out as if he were approaching a spooked dog.

Theon realized he’d been making little gasping noises, and his face burned with shame.

The blond slave approached—what was his name? Damon? “Did _he_ do that to you?”

Theon felt even more shame that Damon could tell just from looking at him.

Damon knelt down next to him. “It isn’t right,” he said. “He can’t treat you like this. Even slaves have rights.”

“I’m a citizen,” Theon said. If he said it enough times, maybe somebody would _believe_ him. They couldn’t _treat_ him this way. He was supposed to be _protected_.

“Even more reason then. You can’t stay here.” Damon stood.

Theon watched him rise. He was like a giant, towering over him. “Wha—?”

Damon reached down a hand. “Come, I’ll help you get out the front gate. Once you’re out, you need to go straight to the magistrate and tell him what’s happened. The local magistrate is a compassionate man, and he’s helped slaves in your situation before. He’ll help you.”

Theon stared at the proffered hand. “You’d…help me escape?”

“We slaves must help each other.”

Theon stared up into his eyes. He read compassion and understanding there. Never in a million years would Theon had expected to receive help from a foreign barbarian, but he had to remind himself that they were warriors up north. Brutish, but strong and proud warriors nonetheless. Perhaps this man could understand his suffering, as someone born into freedom and forced into servitude.

Theon took his hand, and Damon lifted him to his feet. Then took his hand and began to lead him down the hallway, where the gods of prosperity and good fortune and the busts of Roose’s ancestors all watched him as pitilessly as Roose himself. “I will distract the guard,” Damon said in a hushed whisper. “They’re more concerned about keeping the riffraff out than keeping anybody in.”

There was a lone guard at the entrance, already half-asleep as he leaned against the wall. He did snap to when he heard their footsteps approaching, though.

“It’s just me, Alyn.” Damon ushered Theon to stand out of sight while he stepped forward. “Thought I’d keep you company tonight.”

“Ah, Damon,” the guard drawled, turning to greet the other man. “Glad you showed up. Was just about to start throwin’ stones at cats, just for something to do.”

Damon came around to his other side, and Alyn must have thought nothing off about it because he kept turning to be face-to-face with him, in the process turning his back to the door. Theon peered out from around the wall and caught Damon’s hand gesture: _go now_! Theon nodded and gave his silent thanks to the brute before creeping past the distracted guard.

He hurriedly ducked around the side of the _domus_ and into the shadows of the alleyway. Damon and Alyn’s voices drifted as if from somewhere far away. Theon allowed himself a moment to release his breath, then leaned heavily against the wall while he tried to draw air back into his lungs. The city air was thick, not like in the countryside or on his home island. Instead of grass or salt, it was smoke and tar, though not as putrid as it had been in the _forum_. It settled on him like a layer of grime. It felt like he would never be clean again.

No time for those sorts of thoughts. He needed to find the magistrate and avail himself to the man’s power. The man would be properly appalled. There were no Gratii in the Senate at current, but his family _was_ noble, and the treatment he had received at the hands on the Vulcanius household would be dealt with as the serious crime it was.

He slid down the alleyway, towards the open street on the other end. There was nobody about this time of night, just the occasional stray dog. Theon wasn’t sure where he was, let alone how to find the magistrate. The windows he could see from the street were dark, and all the buildings looked the same.

His sandals slapped on the cobblestones as he began to run. Closed-in streets, at least, he _was_ used to. The village on his home island had been built into the cliffs, with buildings one on top of the other and steep alleys and staircases connecting the mishmash of levels. The capital wasn’t quite that bad, and it seemed the Empire’s engineers had designed everything to lead towards the center of the city.

Of course. The Senate. He had seen the _Curia Julia_ when they’d passed through the city’s center, on the opposite side of the _forum_ as the Coliseum. Could he make it that far on foot? He could try.

He kept to the main thoroughfares, running until he was winded, until he had to stop to rest. His lungs burned. His mouth ached. And his nose was a wreck. He leaned against the wall of what appeared to be a shop of some kind. There were more lighted windows here, more people about. Though they looked rather unsavory to Theon’s eyes: men and women with matted hair and tattered clothes, who eyed him suspiciously, as if sizing him up for robbery.

Theon ignored them as best he could. He was dressed as a slave, after all, and they would quickly deduce he had nothing of value on him.

As he walked, he became aware of a scuffling from an alleyway—grunting and yelling, the telltale sounds of a brawl, but also the clinking of armor. He slowed his pace to peer around the corner and saw four men in armor wrestling with a street thug. Theon’s heart soared at finally finding some authority figures, for perhaps a moment before remembering images of men in similar armor murdering the Sandalii.

But no, these weren’t the Praetorian Guard.  Not at this time of night, and with no one of note around to protect. Likely they were the urban cohort, more peacekeepers than soldiers. They answered to the magistrate and would know where to find him.

Theon took a deep breath and stepped forward. They didn’t hear him clearing his throat over the sound of their scuffling, so he was forced to speak. “Excuse me.”

They whirled, one man drawing his sword. The ruffian they’d been subduing took the opportunity to lash out, and the soldiers’ attention was drawn back to him quickly. “Get that bastard under control!” the sergeant ordered before turning to Theon. “Looking for trouble, are you?”

“No, sir,” Theon answered. “Looking for help.”

He saw the man eying him up and down, probably taking in the state of his face. “What sort of help does a slave need after curfew?”

Theon swallowed thickly. “I’m a citizen. Gratius Marcus Quartinius Theon. Please, I need to speak to the magistrate. It’s urgent.”

The man scratched at his cheek. “Gratius?”

“Yes, sir. You know my family.”

“Yeah, I do.” He gave a derisive snort. “Alright, we’ll take you to the magistrate.”

He clamped a hand on Theon’s shoulder, nominally a comforting gesture, but Theon couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped as the sergeant steered him towards the other soldiers, who had finally managed to get the ruffian under control.

“What’s that, Slynt?” one of the men asked. “ _Another_ runaway?”

Theon saw the ruffian for the first time—an exceptionally dirty man dressed in only a loincloth. He did not look _at all_ pleased to be held on his knees, a soldier pulling either arm sharply and painfully behind his back, and his gray eyes gleamed with a feral malice, peeking out from behind curtains of tangled, curly hair.

“Now, don’t be rude, Meryn. He’s a citizen.” The sergeant patted Theon’s shoulder. “And he tells me he needs to speak to the magistrate straight away.”

“At least he speaks,” one of the other soldiers said, and the ruffian uttered a string of what could only be curses, though Theon didn’t recognize the language.

Sergeant Slynt’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have the cur under control or what?”

“We do, sir,” the man called Meryn replied with a grunt as he gave another sharp twist of the ruffian’s arm, causing the man to wince and grit his teeth.

“Then quit fucking around.” Sergeant Slynt cocked his head. “We’ll put him in the holding cell ‘til Vargo comes to claim him. Like hell I’m tracking that bastard down this time of night.” He turned his head, spat onto the cobblestones, and then turned back to Theon. “And you, my friend, can accompany us. I’ll fetch the magistrate straight away and we’ll get this whole mess sorted out, yeah?”

Theon nodded gratefully and followed as the man steered him back onto the main street, the other four behind pushing and prodding the still-struggling ruffian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is this curly-haired ruffian? Oh, probably no one important to the story.


	9. viii

They arrived at a stark round building with high, windowless walls. The magistrate’s office? Theon wasn’t sure. It looked more like a prison. And, indeed, as they first entered, Theon saw a room lit by a single torch, a single bored-looking guard sitting in a single chair overlooking a row of dank cells. He stirred and sniffed and wiped his nose with his hand as the soldiers entered in a clatter of armor, and when his eyes blinked open blearily, they were the telltale red shot of a man deep into his cups.

“Wazzit?” he drawled.

Sergeant Slynt jerked his thumb at the cages. “Need a cell for these two ‘til morning.”

These _two_?

Theon tugged at the man’s shoulder. “You said you would fetch the magistrate.”

Slynt shrugged off his grasp. “The magistrate’s asleep this time of night. I’m not going to roust him on account of some slave.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Theon gestured at his face. “He did _this_ to me.”

“Who?”

“My…master,” Theon answered, feeling his bloodied face burn with shame. “He broke my nose and my tooth and he…” He didn’t want to tell this man about the other thing. “Please, you have to tell the magistrate.”

Slynt did not look impressed. “I’ll tell him in the morning,” he grumbled, and shoved Theon towards the cells, where the other soldiers had managed to wrestle the ruffian inside. One of the men grabbed Theon and pushed him in without a second thought. The door slammed behind him with a metallic clink that rang throughout the room.

In a flash, Theon had his hands wrapped around the bars. He’d never been…locked in before. He wasn’t a criminal. He wasn’t an _animal_.

“Please,” he begged. “My family is wealthy and powerful. If you go fetch the magistrate right now, I’ll give you—”

“You’ll give me what?” Slynt said. “Tell me, if your family’s so wealthy and powerful, why couldn’t they use their wealth and power to keep you from being made a slave?”

“Because they…” Theon didn’t know how to respond to that, and the soldiers laughed as he trailed off without an answer.

Slynt snorted. “The Gratius name doesn’t mean shit around here.”

Theon squeezed the bars until his knuckles turned white. “When the magistrate hears about this, _your_ name won’t mean shit around here.”

Slynt slammed his gauntleted hand against the bars, smacking Theon’s fingers. Theon yelped. “He’ll thank me for not waking him up in the middle of the night for some frivolous brat’s request.” Then, with a shrug, Slynt stepped back. “Slaves wasting enough of my time tonight.” He motioned with his hand, and the other three soldiers fell in. On their way out, Slynt called over his shoulder to the drunken guard, “Feel free to rough either of ‘em up if they give you any trouble.”

“Will do,” the guard called back, before promptly settling back into his chair and falling asleep.

There was a single bench in the cell, and Theon fell back onto it. His weariness had begun to seep back as a deep, dull ache, but before he could think too much on what he was feeling—physically or emotionally—he remembered that he’d been locked in a cage with a ruffian, and a barbarian it had taken three men to subdue at that. Nervously, he cast an eye at the man who had unexpectedly become his cellmate.

The man had forgone the bench and sat slumped on the floor, his head leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed. There wasn’t much light in the room, but certainly more than on the streets, and Theon could make out the lines of his face—and his body. He had the muscles of a fighter, and his body was littered with bruises, both old and fresh, and well as cuts. Theon was temporarily mesmerized by the rise and fall of the man’s chest as he breathed, the way the tight muscles of his stomach tensed and untensed. Even covered in dirt and filth, he was beautiful.

_Heracles_. The thought came unbidden to Theon’s mind, but there it was. Strong, beautiful, fierce—if the man had been born a citizen of the Empire, there would be rumors aplenty that he was a demigod.

One gray eye cracked open and regarded Theon.

Theon realized he’d been staring and quickly looked away. He did _not_ want to get into a fight with this man.

“You tried to escape too?” The man gestured vaguely to his face.

Theon was startled. He thought Slynt had said the man didn’t speak Latin. His accent was thick, and he spoke somewhat brokenly, but he obviously knew enough. Had he been listening the whole time?

“I…” Theon rested a hand against his cheek, but the gesture made his jaw ache. He was still bleeding, especially the empty socket where his tooth had been. He nodded.

The man’s eyes softened. Theon hated to think the only sympathy he could garner was from foreign-born slaves. They didn’t know why he was different from them. They hadn’t been born citizens of the greatest Empire in the world, and all the rights and privileges that bestowed.

“I don’t want pity,” Theon said, even though he did want it, badly. He needed _someone_ to take pity on him, but someone who could actually _help_ him.

The man shifted, sat up. His curly hair tumbled around his face. “You are allowed to be angry, you know. They can lock us up, force us to perform for them, but they cannot order us to feel or not feel.”

He had a strange sort of diction, and his Latin was fumbling, but Theon understood him. Perfectly.

“I am Jon.”

Theon cocked his head in surprise. “You’re a Christian?”

Jon looked confused for a moment as well, then he seemed to understand what Theon had meant. “No, we worship older gods in my homeland.” A wistful look came over his face, full of sadness and longing. A look Theon understood perfectly as well.

Theon sighed. “Did your masters do…that to you?” He gestured vaguely at his own chest, indicated the bruising and cuts that littered Jon’s body.

Jon’s face hardened. “They are _not_ my masters. No man is my master.”

“They control what happens to you,” Theon pointed out, and watched the way Jon’s jaw tightened.

“They can beat me and starve me and threaten me with all manner of punishment, but until my will has been stripped and all fight has fled from my body, they are _not_ my masters.”

With talk like that, it wasn’t surprising he had been beaten as much as he had. Still…

“I’ll put in a word for you with the magistrate,” Theon said, “when I speak with him.”

“The…magistrate,” Jon said in confusion. “He’s perhaps your chief.”

“Something like that. A man of authority. He’ll be able to help.”

“He can free us?”

“Well…no,” Theon said, and Jon immediately slumped back against the wall with a defeated sigh. “But he can punish your ma…the men who’ve been beating you, maybe even send you somewhere where you’ll be treated better. If you behave.”

Jon turned his head away. “I will not.”

Theon rankled. “I’m offering to help you.”

“And I appreciate the offer. You are the first of your countrymen to show me anything aside from disdain. But at the same time, you ask me to give up my will, to bow to the men who imprisoned me and took me from my homeland. You ask the impossible.”

“Fine,” Theon said, a bit peevishly. He was embarrassed he’d even tried. This was the type of slave who would make trouble wherever he went, and Theon’s good will was wasted on him. “Perhaps I’ll mention you to the magistrate, perhaps I won’t. What you do after that is up to you.” And with that, he laid down on the bench. It was rough and hard and he had to pull his legs up to his chest to fit, but he was far too tired to care. And beyond caring about whether Jon wanted his help or not. “I’m tired. Don’t wake me until the magistrate arrives.”

“I won’t wake you,” Jon said. “Sleep well, Tired.”


	10. ix

All of his teeth were falling out. Desperately, Theon tried to gather them up from the floor. They fell faster than he could collect them—one, two, five, ten, more teeth than he even had in his mouth, he was sure. He managed to snag a handful, but as he reached for the next one, an arm’s reach away, a boot came down on his hand. He recoiled with a startled yelp, and all the teeth he’d managed to collect went flying like a gambler’s haphazardly thrown dice.

“No,” he cried out through a toothless mouth. “Someone…please help.”

There were lots of people around. Faceless people. Just legs, really, from where he was crouched on the floor. And their feet kept stepping on his teeth, on his hands. All these people, and no one seemed to notice he was even there, no matter how hard he screamed. Tears of frustration ran down his face.

“Why won’t anybody…?”

Gentle hands cupped his own. He looked up with a start to see a face. Robb. Smiling at him, the sun shining on his freckled cheeks and red hair. He held Theon’s hands in his own. They were warm. And wet. When Theon looked down, he realized they were dripping in blood.

He drew back with a disgusted cry.

All around him, the entire earth shook with the tolling of a death bell. It rang in his ears, in his bones, in his missing teeth. He clapped his bloody hands over his ears and screamed…

…and bolted awake to the gods-awful sound of metal raucously clanging off of metal.

For a long moment, he didn’t know where he was. His entire body ached, but mostly his face was a dull pain that throbbed in time with his beating heart. He blinked the sleep crust from his eyes; his eyelids had never felt so heavy. There was a soldier, running a metal rod along the bars.

Bars? Stone walls. Dank. Dark.

A man on the other side of the bars covering his ears in response to the clamor as a string of unintelligible—but obviously irritated—words issued from behind his gritted teeth.

Jon, Theon remembered. And then he remembered the rest.

He sat up and the clanging stopped. “Ah, I see you’re awake, my lovelies,” the soldier said. It wasn’t one he recognized from last night. He smacked the rod against his open palm, as if it were a switch. “You’ve got a special guest, and it’s rude to keep your betters waiting.”

Now that he was more awake, Theon could see a second person standing behind the soldier, his arm holding up the elaborate draping of a bureaucrat’s toga. For a moment, his aches and pain were forgotten. The magistrate. He’d begun to doubt the man would be summoned. Slynt, or maybe one of his men, must have passed word along after all. Theon felt a well of gratitude he couldn’t have even imagined for the men last night.

“This,” the soldier said, gesturing to the bureaucrat with his metal rod, “is Fraeus Valder, and he’s here to decide what’s to be done with you.”

Theon was not familiar with the name, which was a touch troubling. The bureaucrat shuffled forward, and in the light he could see the man was quite stooped with age. He looked like he’d recently been sucking on lemons with the way his entire face puckered. And the lines of his frown only deepened as his rheumy eyes scanned them from behind the bars.

“Are you the magistrate?” Theon asked.

“The magistrate’s a personal friend of mine.” The man gave a barking laugh. “I’m as high up on the ladder as you’re likely to reach. It’s my job to deal specifically with runaway slaves—thankful, fulfilling job that it is.” He grunted with mirthless laughter. “Let’s make this easy, for all our sakes. Why don’t you lads tell me who you belong to and we’ll drop you off back where you belong?”

“ _Cer I grafu_ , _twll tin_ ,” Jon said in a tone of obvious dismissal.

“Sir, your honor,” Theon began. “My name is Gratius Marcus Quartinius Theon. I’m a lawful citizen of the Roman Empire. My…master…Vulcanius Ramsay, has been unlawfully abusing me.” He gestured to his swollen face. “He did this to me for a mistake I made.”

Valder’s eyes widened slightly in recognition. “Vulcanius, you say?” he said. “Yes, we’ve had some disturbing reports about them before.”

“You have?”

“Indeed, we have.” Valder turned to the guard. “Unlock this door. Let this poor young man out this instant. Can’t you see he’s suffered enough?”

The soldier blinked in confusion and took a few seconds to hop to command.

Theon almost didn’t believe it. Unconsciously he’d been preparing for another dismissal. Finally—finally!—some sanity. He shot a look to Jon, whose entire body was practically vibrating with energy, and he knew the man intended to make use of them opening the door. Theon shook his head. _Don’t do it_ , he begged as hard as he could with his eyes. _Don’t ruin this for me_.

Jon read his plea loud and clear, because he grunted in annoyance but allowed the tension to drain from his shoulders.

_Thank you_ , Theon thought. Just for that, he _would_ mention Jon’s case, when he was safe himself.

The door opened and closed without incident, and then he was standing next to Valder and he felt more like an equal than he had since he’d first become a slave.

“Well?” the old bureaucrat said to the solider, with an air of impatient expectancy. “What are you waiting for? Go fetch a carriage. Unless you expect this young man to walk.”

“Uh…” the solider stammered. “Where shall I—?”

“Tell them Fraeus Valder sent you and that we’ll be waiting at the _curia_. They’ll know where to find us.”

“Yes, sir.” The solider’s eyes went from Valder to Theon. “I, uh…I don’t think I’m allowed to let you…”

“For gods’ sake,” Valder grumbled, “we’re just headed for the _curia_. It’s across the way. I doubt there’s much this young man…Gratius, you said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I doubt there’s much trouble he’ll get up to in that amount of time,” Valder continued. “He won’t cause any trouble. Will you?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Then we shan’t be needing a guard.”

The solider eyed him skeptically but nodded went to go do as he’d been bid.

Valder jerked his head. “Let’s get out of this shit hole.”

They left Jon behind. Outside the jail, the sun had already risen, and the streets were busy with midmorning traffic.

“We’ll get you somewhere safe,” Valder said as they went. “The magistrate knows the Vulcanius family only too well. Only too well, indeed.”

“The magistrate knows?”

“Indeed he does. But this time— _this time_ —I imagine there will be no wriggling out of the consequences for Roose.”

“And his son,” Theon urged.

“Yes, and his bastard son.”

Theon hadn’t known Ramsay was a bastard. The thought of a low-born hooligan doing…what he’d done to him…made him burn with an even deeper shame and anger. But at least he would be punished accordingly. Perhaps the magistrate would even take pity on Theon’s situation and dismiss the _nexus_ agreement as being prematurely fulfilled. Last night, when he’d been at his lowest, Theon would have chided himself for allowing himself to hope, but the world was _sane_ again and anything seemed possible today.

They arrived at the _curia_. The main section was a three-storied building, with a single-story entrance held aloft with white columns. They entered without any fuss, and Theon found it was actually hollow inside, with the windows of the second story casting light in a wide open room. The offices were much humbler, branching off of a single-story hallway.

Valder showed him the way to his own office, where he pushed the stacks of scrolls and styli to the ground to clear a space for Theon to sit. He also had a servant fetch Theon some wine, which, even though watered down and lukewarm, was extremely calming to his nerves. The alcohol burned at his missing tooth, and his tongue kept catching on the other broken one. He wondered if he could get a surgeon to fix it or if it would have to be removed entirely. At the very least he would like to see about getting his broken nose set so that he didn’t look like a street thug when it finally healed.

He just had time to finish his wine before another servant arrived and informed Valder that a chauffeur was waiting for him outside. “Well, then,” Valder said, clapping his hands. “I’ll just see you off and then inform the magistrate right away.”

“You will?” Theon asked hopefully as Valder crooked his finger for him to follow. A thought occurred to him. “The other slave in the cell with me…his name is Jon, and I think his masters are abusing him as well.” As if it weren’t obvious just looking at the man. “Maybe you’ll mention him to the magistrate as well. I know he’s not a citizen, but…”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Valder said. “The magistrate takes these matters very seriously.”

There was an open-carriage wagon waiting out on the street, and a bored-looking chauffeur swatting flies off the back of his horse. “Heard you had a job for me, Fraeus,” he said idly as they approached.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Valder said, and Theon climbed up into the back of the wagon. “This young man has just escaped Vulcanius Roose and needs to go to the safe house. You know the one, I presume?”

“I know the one,” the chauffeur said and cracked his whip. The wagon began to pull away.

“Take care,” Valder called and gave him a smile, twisted with age.

“Thank you,” Theon called back, with more gratitude than he had ever felt in his life.

The sun was out, and even though it gave the air a pungent stench of animal and human alike, the warmth was soothing. Theon leaned his head back and allowed it to hit his face. He remembered Robb’s face in the sun that day. He drew in as deep a breath through his ruined nose as he could, filling his lungs, and offered a prayer to the gods.

_Thank you, Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, for hearing me and delivering me. I promise I will come out of this a humbler man, a more pious man. I will give to your temples and sacrifice an entire goat twice—no, three times a year! I will continue to pray that you guide me in my quest for justice for Robb._

He was terribly tired still, but frightened to let himself sleep. Frightened of what dreams Somnus would send him. He did allow himself to doze. The world faded to gray as he hovered in that place between sleeping and waking.

He was shaken from that place, ironically, by the sudden stillness. The wagon had ceased its shuddering, juddering crawl across the cobblestones. Theon opened his eyes and lifted his sore neck to see that they had come to a stop. In front of a building he was hideously familiar with, despite having first laid eyes on it perhaps less than a full day ago.

“What…?”

He leapt to his feet as the driver called out, “Ramsay, I’ve come to return something you’ve lost, courtesy of Fraeus Valder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations to anyone who saw that coming a mile away. Unfortunately, it came as quite a shock to poor Theon.
> 
> Frey = Fraeus, basically just rewriting Frey to be more Roman
> 
> _Cer I grafu, twll tin_ = Fuck off, asshole (essentially)


	11. x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings apply. There's...a little bit of everything in this chapter.

The arms subdued him quickly enough—it was the blow to his face that finally knocked the ability to fight out of him—and as he was dragged along the street, he saw a bulky figure appear from the _domus_ entryway.

“Ben,” Ramsay said, ignoring Theon completely and slapping the wagon driver on the back affectionately. “Ben Bones. The fuck are you doing here?”

The driver shrugged. “They caught one of your runaways. I know you hate an early ending to your hunts, but I’m just the deliveryman. I’m sure your father will be pleased.”

“Fuck my father,” Ramsay grumbled.

“Speaking of…” The driver coughed conspicuously and held out a hand.

Ramsay snorted. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll get the old man to settle up. Have to keep our good standing with the Senate, I suppose.”

The Senate? Theon’s head was spinning, both from the punch and from the betrayal. He should have guessed Vulcanius Roose wasn’t above greasing a few palms. In fact, he’d been stupid to assume he didn’t.   _Stupid_ , he thought. _Stupid, stupid, to think Fortuna would let me off that easily_. He couldn’t keep himself from cackling at the thought. It was just too…funny.

Ramsay turned to him for the first time since stepping out, and his expression seemed almost worried, as if he suspected Theon had cracked. “Take him inside, Damon,” he ordered with a jerk of his thumb.

Theon looked up then and felt only dull, unattached surprise to see the large, blond slave was the one who had tackled him to the ground and was now dragging him back to the _domus_. Damon didn’t even look at him as he hauled him past several gawking slaves gathered in the atrium and then roughly deposited him on the floor in Ramsay’s room.

“Well, you fucked that up,” he grunted, squatting down as Theon lifted himself up onto shaking hands and knees. “I gave you a golden opportunity, and what do you do? Run straight to the people tasked with sending you back.”

Theon opened his mouth to croak an apology, for wasting Damon’s help.

But Damon gripped his hair and forced his head up. “We didn’t even get the proper chance to hunt you down.”

Theon stared up, not comprehending.

“Oh well, at least I get to punish you.” Damon smiled and winked at him. “That’s the fun part, really.”

“You…?”

“Set you up? You’re a fast one, aren’t you?”

“But…” Theon’s mouth flapped. “Why? We’re both slaves.”

Damon chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that Theon could feel. “You think I’m going to risk my life for you just because we’re both slaves? Ramsay and I were slaves together on the same farm for years. He got me out of the shit hole by convincing his brother to take me with them when he showed up to free his long-lost bastard brother. I owe Ramsay more than I’ll ever owe you. I just met you yesterday, and quite frankly, you already piss me off.”

“Ramsay…was a…?”

“Yeah, but don’t tell him I told you.” Damon released his hold, and Theon’s chin bounced painfully off the tiles. “He’s a bit sensitive about it.”

“Sensitive about what?” Ramsay asked as he strolled into the room, hands tucked behind his back. He took one look at the man sprawled out on his floor and scoffed. “You better not have started without me.”

“Never, sir,” Damon replied in a far-too-chipper voice as he sprang to his feet. “Just getting him ready is all.”

“Let’s get started then, shall we?” Ramsay knelt down and gripped Theon’s chin tightly. Theon had the distinct sense of being in a repeating nightmare as he was guided to look up into those pale eyes. “Usually I start by giving you a chance to apologize for running off.”

Theon’s mind blanked. He felt incapable of responding. He wanted to spit into Ramsay’s face, defy and rage against him. But he already knew what sort of pain that would bring, and he hadn’t exactly held out for long yesterday, despite his resolve. It wasn’t resolve that moved him this time, so much as an utter sense of helplessness. He was caught in a riptide, and no amount of fighting against it would bring him back to shore—he was beginning to see that now—but at the same time, he couldn’t just allow himself to be carried out to sea. He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t _try_.

So he did. He spat into Ramsay’s face, tinged pink with blood, and set his aching jaw.

Ramsay wiped his face, but there was malevolent glee on his face. “Looks like you’re going to make up for the disappointing hunt by at least putting up a fight.” He released Theon’s chin and looked over his shoulder at Damon. Some silent command passed between them, because Damon nodded and left the room with a giddy step to his gait. Ramsay turned his attention back to Theon. “We’ll decide how to punish your insolence later. Right now you’re going to learn what your few hours of freedom cost you.”

He grabbed Theon’s wrist and yanked on his arm. Theon tried to pull free, but he wasn’t in much condition to fight at this point. He felt as weak as a woman, as weak as a child, as Ramsay forced the fingers of his hands to uncurl.

“Which one?”

Theon stared.

“Which one’s your favorite? Finger, I mean.”

Theon shook his head. “You can’t.”

“Oh, I can’t?” Ramsay laughed. “I’m not _allowed_? Well, you’re not _allowed_ to run away. But here we are.”

With the sound of running footsteps, Damon returned, carrying a butcher’s knife, the sort meant for cutting the heads off chickens.

Theon saw it and began to fight in earnest against the grip on his wrist, using his other hand to beat against Ramsay’s arm. It was like fighting a boulder. It was like fighting against a mountain when he felt Damon settling his massive weight onto his back, pinning him to the floor. Strong hands pushed down on his shoulders, so that he couldn’t move an inch except to curl his fingers.

One by one, Ramsay pried them apart, until he had the ring finger on Theon’s right hand. “This one,” he proclaimed. “You’ll miss it, but it shouldn’t interfere with your work too much.” He held out his free hand, and the butcher’s hand exchanged grasps. Theon could barely breathe, though whether from fear or the sheer weight on his body, he didn’t know. Ramsay spread his hand out flat on the floor and lowered the knife with deliberate slowness. “It’ll be a good reminder of your first escape attempt, eh? We’ll take a more important finger if you try again.”

And with a wink, he pressed the edge of the knife into Theon’s finger, just above the first knuckle.

It wasn’t clean at all, or fast. It was excruciatingly slow, and Ramsay had to make several attempts, putting the full weight of his body behind the blade, before the cut was finally clean. Afterwards, Damon climbed off of him, and Theon was left staring in shock at his severed finger. It felt…unreal. More unreal than staring at his own tooth. A finger was… _his_ finger was…

He rolled over and vomited onto the floor. It was mostly just bile, and it mingled with the blood spurting from the stump of his finger. Above him, Ramsay and Damon laughed.

Damon bent and retrieved the bit of severed flesh, lying like a fat, pale worm in its own puddle of blood. “We’ll give that to the dogs.”

“Do. A bit of a pitiful meal, but it’s the least they deserve after being denied a chance to hunt.”

Twirling the finger, Damon headed for the door.

“Oh,” Ramsay called after him, “when you get back, which of his ends do you want?”

_Ends_? What did that mean? This wasn’t _over_?

“Eh, I’ll take his mouth,” Damon said. “You should get the honors of breaking in his ass.”

“Not sure I’ll be the first one in there,” Ramsay chuckled, and Theon realized what they were talking about.

“You can’t.” It felt like that was all he’d said since he’d arrived. _You can’t_. But he knew, the moment it left his mouth, that they _could_. And they _would_.

He felt light-headed. He’d lost a lot of blood, and was losing more by the minute. In truth, he slipped in and out of consciousness as they took him, a minor blessing, he supposed. The pain was something so distant, like it was happening to somebody else and he was just watching from far away. His last thoughts were of Robb and how he had failed him before he mercifully slipped into darkness and felt no more.

 

END PART I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends Part I. I haven't finished Part II yet, so I have a question for you all: Do you want me to keep posting up until thechapter I _have_ finished, or would you rather wait until I finish Part II for more regular updates?


	12. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm going to keep posting...

Theon shuffled down the hallway behind his master, head down, eyes trained on the floor. Damon took up the rear, making him feel rather like a condemned prisoner being led to his execution—a not-uncommon feeling these days.

“I’ve got a treat for you today, Reek,” Ramsay said as they walked. “We’re going somewhere special.”

Theon just nodded in agreement. “Treats” were almost always anything but.

Theon was quite attentive to his master’s steps, and so managed to keep himself from smacking into Ramsay’s back as the other man ground to an abrupt halt in the atrium. Theon lifted his eyes just enough to see the holdup: Roose standing guard at the entryway, hands clasped placidly in front and stony expression boring all of its displeasure straight at Ramsay.

“Headed out, are we?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ramsay answered petulantly, but his shoulders slumped in submission. “Is that a problem? Do I need to inform you of all my comings and goings now?”

Roose pivoted his head ever-so-slightly, so that his cold and calculating gaze fell upon Theon. Theon quickly looked down.

“Do you really intend to parade your creature out in public?” Roose asked, and it might have been dismissive, a father scolding his son for playing with toys when he was too old. But In the three months since Theon had arrived at the Vulcanius _domus_ , he’d come to learn the subtle changes to the man’s face, the expressions that denoted something like emotion. The tight line of his lips, the slight flare of his nostrils, the almost imperceptible tic of his right eye that bespoke disapproval and a deep, deep shame.

“He’ll behave himself,” Ramsay answered. “He’s been well-trained, haven’t you, Reek?”

“Yes, sir,” Theon mumbled, fiddling with his fingers, feeling the empty spaces. Three fingers for three escape attempts. _I learned my lesson_.

“Do you have any mind for what they’ll say about you, dragging that cur about?” Roose continued, his voice completely lacking inflection. “It’s one thing to bribe my friends in the Senate to look the other way regarding the happenings in my own house, but if you choose to show that thing in public—”

“Are you implying I mistreat my slaves?” Ramsay interrupted with a cocky grin. “Reek’s just a clumsy fellow. In fact, I rather think the noble families will recognize my charity in taking on a cripple as my personal servant.”

Roose’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t bring him into the stands with you.”

“Damon will watch him. I want Reek to see the games.”

 _Games_ , Theon thought dully. _Dominus likes games_.

“So…” Ramsay forced a smirk. “Do I have your permission to go now?”

“You don’t need my permission,” Roose said. “It’s no business of mine.”

Ramsay snorted and started for the door, but Roose’s arm shot out, grabbing the frame and blocking the way. For a moment, father and son stood staring at each other, like two animals sizing the other up for a fight.

“It’s no business of mine,” Roose repeated, “unless you _make_ it my business. Understand?”

Ramsay’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Yes, Father.”

Roose breathed out through his nose and lowered his arm. “Then I expect your outing to be uneventful. If word comes back that you were involved in any sort of…shall we say, distasteful behavior, we’ll be having a much less pleasant discussion.”

“Yes, Father,” Ramsay repeated, and with a swift cock of his head, Damon urged Theon to move again.

He hadn’t stepped foot outside the _domus_ since his last escape attempt, over a month ago now. True, the courtyard was open to the sky, but the sun seemed brighter out here, the air cleaner, even with the smells of humans and animals living packed together, smells that grew stronger as they made their way into the city.

So, they were headed into the city. The games Ramsay had mentioned. Theon’s suspicions were proven correct when they found themselves caught up in a steady stream of people heading for the Coliseum. Roose had mentioned when he’d first arrived that Ramsay was fond of the matches.

There were all manner of people present, from peasants to merchants to members of the equestrian class and nobles. Even a number of slaves. All of them turned out in their respective best dress to watch men fight to the death.

Jostling against the sea of sweaty, excited humanity, they entered through a thick archway and up a flight of stairs to the second story. The amphitheatre rose up on all sides, and Theon had to crane his neck to take it all in. It seemed even more impossibly large on the inside than simply observing it from the street. Below, the wide open pit of the arena itself gaped, surrounded by a ring of spectators, all older-looking men in white togas. Ramsay pointed down at them. “That’s where _I_ sit.” Then he pointed his finger nearly straight up, and Theon again craned his neck to see the seats at the very top of the stadium. “And that’s where _you_ sit.” He ruffled Theon’s dirty, matted hair in a mock—or perhaps perversely sincere—show of affection. “Think you can stand to be that far apart from me during the matches?”

Theon wasn’t sure how to respond, and it took him a few moments to think of the proper response. “I’d rather be with you, _dominus_.”

“Of course you would, but you must go where you belong. With the women and other slaves.” Ramsay leaned in and kissed his forehead. “Be good for me, Reek.”

“Don’t worry,” Damon hissed in his ear, “you can still see the blood splatter from up there, though you do miss the light going out of their eyes.” And with a slight slap on his shoulder, the way you might coax a stubborn donkey to get moving, they started climbing the stairs.

In his childhood on the islands, Theon would have had no trouble running up five flights of perilously steep steps. But now he had lost one of his big toes and the soles of his feet still hurt from the hot iron Ramsay had taken to them last week. He winced with every step, but Damon kept him at a steady pace—honestly a godsend, as otherwise Theon might have been pulled under the crowd and trampled.

They settled in high up. Down below, the people looked like children’s toys, like the wooden soldiers Rickon used to play with. He wondered how much of the action he’d actually see from up here, and felt distinct relief at the prospect that it might not be much at all. They were crowded in among other slaves, kept distinctly separate from the higher class women who sat fanning themselves in the heat.

“Truly, Baelius, you needn’t sit so far up on my account.”

Theon’s ear pricked up at the sound of that name. His head swiveled in the direction the voice had come from. And for a minute his heart stopped as he caught sight of a familiar shade of red hair.

Sansa. She had the same color hair as her mother. As Robb. He hadn’t seen her since the morning of that fateful day, over three months ago now, though he remembered Roose telling him she was well. She looked well. Unhurt, at least. Her face was paler than he remembered, drawn, and she clutched her overwrap tightly about her shoulders, even though it was quite warm.

“Please,” the man seated next to her said. He was an equestrian, by his dress, with dark hair and an immaculately trimmed beard. “Call me Petyr.”

Baelius Petyr. Littlefinger. The man Theon had vowed to kill.

He clenched a three-fingered fist.

“Where are you going, Reek?”

Theon realized he’d gotten to his feet when a strong hand clamped on his shoulder and forced him back into his seat. He’d almost forgotten himself. A veritable sea of people separated him from Baelius and Sansa, not to mention Damon, who would be the first to stop him if he tried anything. Even a month ago, he might have tried. But he was becoming less Theon and more Reek every day, and Reek was smart enough to realize he hadn’t a chance.

He sat back into his seat, still watching Baelius and Sansa. What was she doing with him? She wasn’t…she didn’t _work_ for him, did she? No, she wasn’t seated with the slaves, and she was still dressed in the fine clothes of a noblewoman.

He was still watching them—and they seemed unaware of his eyes on them—as a commotion began down in the arena. A barred gate had been lifted, and out came a formal procession: men carrying _fasces_ for power and dominance, trumpeters blasting fanfare at the crowds, images of Mars and Minerva brought in as divine witness to the matches, and finally the emcee himself, the magistrate- _editor_ who composed the matches. From up this high, Theon couldn’t make much of him except that he was exceptionally fat.

“Kraznys always puts on a good show,” Damon whispered into his ear—hollered, more like, to be heard over the cheering of the crowd.

The editor stepped forward to address the crowd. He spoke with a hint of an accent, Thebian, perhaps. “Welcome, Romans! We have an inspired afternoon of entertainment for you, the citizens, the backbone of this great Empire!”

The stands roared with approval. Theon noted that Baelius applauded with subdued propriety, and Sansa didn’t react at all.

“Let us begin with the beast fighters,” Kraznys continued. “We have an exciting new face with us. He has been practicing exceptionally hard for his debut before you today. Please welcome this warrior all the way from the barbaric lands of Britannia. He speaks no civilized tongue and goes only by the name Wildling. We think it only fair to pit him against his own countryman…er, beast.” He paused to look around. “Shall we begin?”

A cry of approval gathered into almost a fever pitch as the procession threw several spears onto the ground and then made for the exit on the opposite end of the stadium, where a barred gate was quickly closed behind them, setting the arena for the first battle. Despite himself, Theon tore his gaze away from Sansa and Baelius as a smaller gate began to open, operated somewhere out of sight by slaves working a wheel. The bars rolled down, and a gray, four-legged creature shambled into the stadium.

Theon had seen enough frescos of Remus and Romulus to recognize a wolf when he saw one.

He also recognized the figure who appeared from the gate the procession had originally entered through. This far up and away, it was mostly the curly, black hair that gave him away. There was no reason he should have remembered a random slave he’d shared a cell with for a few hours over three months ago. No earthly reason except that he remembered everything about that night, had spent hours upon hours running over the events in his mind, wondering if his fellow slave had simply been another false ally like Damon. It didn’t matter. Theon hadn’t done anything for him in the end—hadn’t _been able_ to do anything for him.

He watched Jon step blinking into the light of the arena.


	13. xii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some new warnings for this chapter, plus the old ones apply as well.

It must have been dark in the tunnels beneath the Coliseum, because Jon threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He was more dressed than when Theon had last seen him, wearing a studded leather cuirass over a loose woolen shirt that fell almost to his knees, cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt. It was foreign armor to be sure, perhaps even the very armor he had been captured in. There was no armor below his belt, and he wore no helmet.

Theon could not read his expression, not from so far away, but he could read the man’s body movements perfectly. The way he jolted in surprise as he first became aware of the wolf stalking towards him. The brief instant where he turned to run, only to find the gate closed behind him, locking him in with the beast. Then the almost calculated panic as he began scanning the area for a weapon before finding the spears that had been left for him.

He ran for them.

The sudden movement seemed to give the wolf permission to strike. It lunged forward, snapping with teeth that Jon just managed to avoid by falling to the ground and rolling. When he leapt back up to his feet, he had a spear in hand.

“Ah, that’s a hungry one,” Damon said. He was practically bouncing up and down in his seat with excitement. “You ever see condemned criminals torn apart by hungry wild animals? It’s the best. They send them out naked, without any weapons at all, and the animals just rip them apart. The only thing is it’s over too fast. Hopefully this one can keep the match going for a while, eh?”

“Maybe he’ll win,” Theon murmured.

He hadn’t meant for Damon to hear, but he received an odd look anyway. “Yeah, maybe,” he said. “They’ve given him more than a fair shot, at least. Still, I never put my money on the newbies.”

Theon found himself mesmerized by the fight. The way Jon brought his spear around, jabbing at it to ward off the wolf’s next attack. The way his armor glinted amid all the dirt and grit.

 _They can beat me and starve me and threaten me with all manner of punishment, but until my will has been stripped and all fight has fled from my body, they are_ not _my masters._

He’d thought about Jon’s words that night, when Ramsay’s punishments seemed to peel as much of his will away as his skin and flesh. And every time he’d thought of letting going of _Theon_ , of embracing _Reek_ , he’d thought about Jon’s words.

He wondered if Jon still felt that way. He didn’t look like a defeated man as he lunged with his spear, driving the wolf back even more. But he did look desperate. He seemed more intent on keeping the beast at bay, rather than killing it, though he must know he had to kill it. The match would not end until one, or both, of them was dead. Theon fervently hoped Jon wouldn’t die, though he supposed it would make no difference to anyone here, one way or the other.

What was one slave’s life, after all?

He looked to Sansa again. Her face was turned away from him. He couldn’t tell what she might be thinking. What would happen if he called out to her? If she turned and saw him? Would she even recognize him? He hardly recognized himself anymore, in the brief glances he caught of himself in the mirror. Would she even care that he was alive? Or would she forever be haunted that the gods had chosen to spare him while her father, mother, and Robb had been struck down?

A cry rose up among the crowd, and Theon’s head whipped around, back to the action in the arena. The wolf must truly have been starving, as Damon surmised. Theon didn’t know any animals who were keen to attack armed humans, unless driven by hunger or madness. Whatever drove this beast, it had lunged at Jon, ignoring his spear completely.

It landed atop Jon, knocking him to the ground. A cloud of dust rose up. Theon could only see the mad thrashing of limbs. The crowd cheered, though who they were cheering on was difficult to tell.

The dust began to settle, and Theon realized the thrashing had stopped. The cheering faded away as everyone realized the same thing. There was no movement; just the wolf’s unmoving body slumped over Jon’s unmoving body.

For an instant, it was as if nobody in the entire stadium breathed.

Then the wolf’s body jerked, and Theon felt an unexpected wretchedness wash over him. But no, it wasn’t the wolf rising. The next instant, the wolf’s body rolled over and collapsed into the dirt, Jon’s spear protruding from its chest. And Jon himself, heaving the heavy beast off of him, slowly rising to his feet.

Cheering erupted all around. Theon joined in, jumping to his feet and pumping his fist.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Damon laughed, but he was also on his feet.

Jon looked stunned as several armored men entered the arena. Two approached him, and Theon could see the exact moment where Jon decided to fight. He grabbed the handle of the spear but could not wedge it free from the wolf’s body before the men were on him, taking him by either arm and escorting him back through the now-opened gate he had originally entered through. Except for the attempt for the spear, he didn’t put up any further fight. The other two men dragged the wolf’s carcass from the arena, leaving big streaks of blood in the dirt.

Everyone returned to their seats as the _editor_ returned to address the crowd.

“Looks like we’ll be seeing more of the Wilding,” he said, to another round of applause. He waited for the noise to die down before continuing. “Next up, it is now my pleasure to reintroduce a familiar face. They call him Crow’s Eye. He’s killed twenty opponents in hand-to-hand combat, but today he’s here to give us a reenactment of the Battle of Carthage, where our glorious Roman Empire overcame the forces of the Carthaginians.

“To set the scene: a thousand Roman deserters—” The crowd booed at that. “—have taken sanctuary in the Citadel of Byrsa, high on the hill. The city of Carthage is being sacked, its men put to the sword and its women and children made slaves.” The crowd cheered. “And our deserters, having abandoned their countrymen in the heat of battle, attempt to sue for peace. Shall we allow this?”

“No!” the entire stadium roared as one.

“No, indeed!” the _editor_ cried back jubilantly. “Deserters deserve no mercy, and they deserve no name. So playing the part of the deserter today, we have a nameless man who deserted his position in the legions. He sought to abandon his countrymen, just as those cowards in their day did.”

A man came shuffling out of one of the gates, escorted by an armored man on either side of him. He wore no armor, just a loincloth, and he had the shambling gait of a drunken man. The crowd booed. Theon saw items thrown from the lower stands—rotten food or rocks, maybe.

“And representing our glorious Empire,” the _editor_ continued, motioning to the opposite side of the stadium, where the other gate had been lifted, “Gratius Tertius Euron, the Crow’s Eye!”

Theon blinked, certain he had to be hearing things. The figure that came waltzing out of the gate wore the dressings common of a gladiator—a loincloth, leg greaves, the one-armed _mancia_ over his right shoulder, a _gladius_ in his right hand, and a helmet, currently tucked under his left arm, giving the crowd a view of his face. Theon recognized the eye patch; the eye underneath had given him nightmares as a child.

 _What is he doing here_?

“What’s with that face?” Damon laughed. “You look like you just watched your house burn down.” He looked from Theon to the figure waving at the cheering crowd, and something must have clicked. “Hey, wasn’t Gratius one of your fancy names? I mean, before Ramsay gave you a new one?” He jerked his head towards the gladiator. “He related to you?”

“I think that’s my uncle,” Theon admitted.

“What? No way!” Damon seemed genuinely excited, grabbing Theon by the shoulders. “You’re Crow’s Eye’s nephew? I’ll tell Ramsay! He’s his favorite fighter. Always bets on him. Maybe we can use you to get in to meet with him.”

Theon fervently hoped not. He would be just fine if he never had to be in the same room with Euron ever again. Just being in the same stadium made him a little queasy as was.

“No way,” Damon repeated, and then was riveted as the arena cleared out for all but the two combatants. _Combatants_. What a joke. Euron’s opponent was unarmed, possibly drugged. Even sober, even armed, he wouldn’t have stood much a chance against Euron, Theon suspected. Euron was a warrior. More than a warrior, he was a killer. He excelled at it. The position of gladiator fit him too well.

Euron put his helmet on and swung his sword around to please the crowd. His opponent did nothing.

Euron stalked forward, taking slow, deliberate steps. The stands vibrated with anticipation.

When he was within striking distance of the other man, he lifted his sword. And brought the pommel down on the man’s temple, knocking him to the ground. Of course he wasn’t going to strike him down in one blow; that would ruin the spectacle. “Coward!” Euron’s voice boomed through the stadium. “You are cornered. There is nowhere to run, no god to deliver you from your cowardice. Do you yield?”

The man’s reply was too quiet to be heard so high up in the stands, but from the way he threw up his hand, as if to protect himself, Theon supposed the man had yielded, perhaps even begged for mercy.

The crowd booed.

“You abandoned your countrymen,” Euron said. “You left your brothers in arms and the Empire that nursed you from your childhood. You willingly threw away your name as a Roman at the prospect of a noble death fighting for your country. And now you want mercy?” He turned to the crowd and addressed them. “Shall I grant this cur mercy?”

“No!” came the thunderous reply.

“Shall I grant him a swift death?”

“No!”

“Shall I show him what traitors and cowards deserve?”

“Yes!”

Euron turned back to the man and, using one boot, kicked him flat to the ground on his stomach. Then crouched down over him. The man didn’t fight back, until Euron pulled back his loincloth, revealing the man’s ass. Then he started scrabbling in the dirt, trying to claw his way out. Euron pinned him down and adjusted his own loincloth. Though he didn’t expose himself—not from what Theon could see, looking down on it all in horror—it was obvious was Euron meant to do.

Theon looked away, closed his eyes shut, focused on his breathing through his nose. The grit of dirt, the smell of sweat and women’s perfume invaded his senses. The cheering of the crowd thankfully drowned out any noise he might have heard from the act. It didn’t stop the bile bubbling up in his throat, though.

Time slowed to a crawl. Gods, it just went on and on. Theon gritted his teeth and willed it to be over soon. His seven fingers gripped tightly to the stone seat, until he felt it cutting into his palms. He tried to breathe. He tried to block it out. But no matter how hard he squeezed his eyes closed, he couldn’t burn the memories of violation out of his mind.

The cheering died down, then abruptly rose again in a crescendo, and Theon couldn’t keep himself from cracking an eye open. Euron had finished, thank the gods, and stood, readjusting his loincloth. He bent to pick up his sword, and with one foot rolled the weeping man over onto his back.

“Do you still beg for mercy?” Euron demanded.

If the man replied, Theon couldn’t hear it.

“So be it, then.” Euron lifted his _gladius_ and stabbed downwards into the man’s stomach. He paused for a few seconds, as if allowing the man a moment to understand what had just happened, then twisted the blade and wrenched it free. Blood poured out of the man’s belly. He made no sound Theon could hear, but he did bring his hands to the wound, either in a vain attempt to staunch the flow or else as some reflex. His arms were soon coated in his own blood, and the dirt around him quickly turned red.

Theon saw himself kneeling in the dirt, blood soaking his own arms up to his elbows. Cradling a spasming body. The light quickly leaving blue eyes, color leaving sun-kissed skin.

A whimper escaped his lips, and he looked over in horror at Damon, terrified the man had noticed. He hadn’t, though. He had leapt to his feet with the other spectators, all screaming and applauding as the man in the arena died slowly.

Theon swallowed his sobs. And for the first time in his life, he _hated_ his countrymen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken some liberties with this chapter, mixing and matching the sorts of fights you'd expect to see at the time. Gladiators were actually highly specialized in their fighting styles. For instance, beast fighters (at least those who weren't condemned criminals) were specially trained to fight animals but not people, but I wanted this to be Jon's first match. Euron's, er...spin on his killing of the deserter is based on a few (thankfully uncorroborated) accounts of public executions where criminals were raped to death by wild animals.


	14. xiii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything after this point has [theonsfavouritetoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonsfavouritetoy/pseuds/theonsfavouritetoy)'s guiding hand. Here's [actual footage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0lczHvB3Y9s) of her giving me lessons on Ancient Rome.

“You’re pale, Reek,” Ramsay noted as they joined the crowd streaming out of the Coliseum. “You must be the only man in Rome who can sit in the sun all afternoon and _lose_ color.” He clapped Theon on the back. “Anyway, how did you enjoy the games?”

Theon was immensely relieved when Damon answered for him. “I think he enjoyed them quite a bit. Especially the first one—the new one, Wildling. What did you think of him, Rams?”

“I’ll tell you what I think. I think I’m in love.”

Theon looked up sharply.

“Ah, don’t look so jealous, Reek. You know I don’t care about pretty faces. I simply mean I admire his carnage. It’s a true shame you had to sit all the way up there. He’s quite something to watch up close.” A wistful look came over his face. “He was like an animal, wrestling with that wolf. You could hardly tell them apart. Gods, I can’t wait to see him fight a man.”

“You want to fuck him,” Damon smirked.

“Of course I want to fuck him,” Ramsay said without missing a beat. “So do you. Don’t deny it. Something like that, with so much fight in it…I can’t decide if I’d want to tame it myself or let it loose on something else.”

“You really are in love, aren’t you?” Damon laughed. “I haven’t heard you talk this way since you first saw Crow’s Eye.”

Theon looked steadfastly at the ground as they passed under the long, low archway leading back out to the forum.

“You know Reek is Crow’s Eye’s nephew, right?”

Theon lowered his head even more, wishing he were a turtle that could draw its head into its shell.

Ramsay snorted. “Reek doesn’t have any family.” He slapped a hand on Theon’s shoulder and drew him close. “Only us. Isn’t that right, Reek?”

Theon nodded wordlessly.

Damon and Ramsay continued to talk about the matches as they headed back. Apparently Ramsay had pulled a decent amount of money through gambling, his only real means of income now that Roose had withdrawn his monthly allowances. “There was a new guy in our betting pool,” he said, jangling his purse so the coins clacked together. “Amazing beginner’s luck. He almost made as much as me. Guy named Aurelius. Ever heard of him?”

Theon was startled to have this question seemingly directed at him. “No, _dominus_ ,” he answered truthfully. The name didn’t sound familiar.

Ramsay just snorted. “Of course not. Why would a lowly slave know anyone?” He jerked his head as they passed a row of shops. “One minute. I’m going to get something.”

Damon stood watch over Theon, though it wasn’t necessary. Theon had no intention of running and Damon knew it, evidenced by the fact that he was clearly more interested in leering at a slave girl fetching water from a fountain. “I don’t mind telling you,” he grumbled, “Ramsay’s always in the mood to fuck after watching the games.”

Theon closed his eyes. He was still sore from a few nights ago, when Ramsay had used a broom handle on him—something about teaching him to be more mindful when he swept. Using the privy was still exceptionally painful, and the thought of Ramsay’s rough treatment—he was always rough—made him want to weep in public. He didn’t though.

Ramsay returned a few minutes later carrying a jug of wine. He held it out to Theon, much to his surprise. “I have something I want you to do, Reek.”

Theon hesitated to reach out for the jug. “Yes, _dominus_?”

“I want you to take this to Wildling. Tell him it’s a gift from an admirer.”

“Me, _dominus_?”

“Ask for a man named Vargo. Tell him who you belong to and who sent you. He’ll let you in.”

“You want me to go with him?” Damon asked.

Ramsay’s thick lips pulled into a knowing smile. “No, I trust him. You won’t do anything bad, will you, Reek? Just right to the Coliseum and back, right?”

“No, _dominus_. Yes, _dominus_ ,” Theon answered respectively to each question. “Right to the Coliseum and back.”

Ramsay transferred the jug to Theon. It was exceptionally heavy in his seven-fingered grasp, and he had to hug it against his stick-thin body to keep from dropping it. He didn’t dare even imagine what Ramsay would do if he dropped it.

As he struggled to hold it, Ramsay leaned in close and whispered wetly in his ear, “And I know you won’t think of keeping Wilding’s gift for yourself, or attempting to foist it off on someone else. It’s very nice wine, Reek, and if I find out it never made it to Wildling, I’ll find something new to cut off of you. Understand?”

“Y-yes, _dominus_ ,” Theon agreed. “I will—I mean I won’t. Right to the Coliseum. Only to Wildling.”

Ramsay patted his shoulder. “Good. Now, go. I’ll be waiting for you at home.”

Theon took off at as fast a pace as he could manage with the jug, its contents sloshing heavily with every limping step he took. He clutched it tightly to the hollow of his stomach, as if it were his own child. The thought to use this moment of freedom to run might have entered his mind once or twice, but he tamped down on it before it even had time to fully form.

The second time he had tried to escape, he’d tried knocking on doors to find someone who might side with him over the Vulcanii, or at least someone had more friends in the Senate than Roose. That had gotten him arrested for disturbing the peace, and Ramsay had cut off his right pinky finger, and then his big toe when Roose had punished _him_ for letting his slave escape again.

The third time, he’d simply tried to leave the city, heading out for the countryside. What he planned to do or where he planned to go…he still hadn’t figured that out by the time Ramsay and Damon, accompanied by two guards and five hunting dogs, had chased him down hardly six hours later. For that, Ramsay had let the men take turns with him in a ditch and then cut off his right index finger.

He’d lost his taste for escape after that. Even if he’d had the courage left to try, he couldn’t afford to lose any more fingers. His hands were so weak now, not able to grip things properly, like the jug Ramsay expected him to carry all the way to the Coliseum. It was so heavy, and his wrists ached with the weight, but his master expected, and so he hobbled on, tracing his way back to the _forum_.

The streets had cleared out relatively quickly. As Theon arrived at the Coliseum, only a few spectators were still trickling out through the main entrance. He approached a man who looked like he might have worked there, because he was directing the stragglers where to go.

“Excuse me, sir,” he began, eyes cast down, “I was told to ask for Vargo.”

He could feel the man sizing him up. Beyond his slave attire, he was also as filthy as a street urchin. Part of him wanted to say, “I’m not as I appear. I’m Gratius Marcus Quartinius Theon, and this isn’t how things are supposed to be.” The other—and much larger—part of him hoped nobody even remembered there had been such a person and that he had once been proud and handsome and utterly ungrateful.

The man must not have judged him to be a threat, because he sniffed and said, “To the left.”

Theon didn’t dare ask for more directions. He simply followed the man’s pointing finger, which led him into one of the arched tunnels that led deep into the monolith, under the stadium seating. It was a dark maze, with more tunnels branching off on all sides, but Theon kept straight, walking until he came upon another man, this one armed and guarding a gated doorway, and repeated his inquiry. He did have to offer additional information this time, mainly who had sent him and for what reason. At the mention of “Vulcanius,” the guard seemed appeased and swung the gate open for him.

“Don’t cause any trouble,” he warned, unnecessarily. Theon had no intention of causing trouble. The man then closed the heavy iron gate with a thunderous clang.

Theon took in a deep breath to ward off the sense of claustrophobia. Wandering the mazelike tunnels in the dark was one thing, but being locked in added a new layer of entrapment. The air was dry and stale, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not seem to fill his lungs. His breath came in rapid, shallow bursts as he forced himself down a flight of stairs and into the Coliseum’s _hypogeum_.

It truly was like entering the underworld. Soon, sounds began to echo off the walls, like the wails of the damned. Angry shouting, beast howls…sounds that grew louder and more distinct with every footstep.

When the tunnel finally opened up, he found himself at the edge of chaos. Men in armor wrangled beasts and men alike, while officials shouted orders, directing them where to go between the rows of cells. Watching from the stadium above, everything had seemed so well-planned and orderly, all of _this_ hidden out of sight.

Theon paled to see the dead bodies piled in the corner, the slaves and condemned criminals, awaiting their undignified disposal. No honor is life, no honor in death; there would be no funeral rites for the likes of them. Stacked amidst them, Theon recognized the man Euron had killed in his first match. Up close, Theon could see the look of agony and horror on the man’s face as he had died. He had thankfully when tossed stomach-down so that the gaping wound in his gut wasn’t visible, just the congealed puddle of blood seeping out from his body, so pale now it was almost blue.

There was one animal amidst the corpses. The wolf. Damon had been right; it truly had been starved, judging by the way its skin stretched over its ribs. It lay with its maw open, tongue lolling out, yellow eyes wide and unseeing.

A soft murmuring drew his attention.

“ _Ag ymhob Hanfod, caru Duw. Duw a phob Daioni_.”

A man knelt by the wolf, shackled hands clasped, head bent so that his dark hair fell over his face. He had been stripped down to his loincloth and a swath of bandages over his shoulder and chest. His skin was golden bronze amidst all the pale death. He finished his prayer and lifted his head and looked startled to see Theon watching him. For an instant he even looked enraged to be caught in so private a moment. But then his grey eyes widened with recognition, though Theon couldn’t believe a man he had shared a cell with for a single night would recognize him months later, especially in the state he was in.

“I know you,” Jon said, rising to his feet. “You are Tired.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's prayer is the tail end of a druidic prayer of dubious origins (the guy who translated it maintained it was ancient, some people think he was just passing off his own work.) Regardless, it was the only pre-Christian prayer for the dead I could find. To any former or practicing druids, I apologize in advance if any offense is taken. Please let me know.


	15. xiv

For a moment they stared at each other.

The bandage across Jon’s chest was beginning to soak through with blood. It looked like the wolf had managed to wound him. More alarming were the cuts and bruises that seemed only to have multiplied since last he’d seen him. There were old scars too, faded white or pink, that bespoke a life of fighting long before the gladiator pits. Ramsay really had pegged him correctly—something fierce that had no business being tamed.

Theon looked away in embarrassment as Jon studied his own injuries—missing fingers, nose crooked from being broken, hair matted and filthy. He suddenly couldn’t bear to be near him and held the jug of wine out with trembling arms. “I was sent to give this to you. It’s a gift from my master, Vulcanius Ramsay. He wishes you to know he enjoyed watching you fight today.”

Jon stared at the jug with a wrinkled nose.

“It’s wine,” Theon explained. “Very nice, very expensive.”

“ _Cachu_ , is what it is.” Jon snorted and turned away in disgust. His exposed back was littered with lash marks, so thick that Theon at first thought the wolf had managed to maul him. “Tell your _master_ I don’t want any gift of his.”

The way he said “master,” with such disdain, made Theon burn with shame. “But I…you _must_ take it,” he murmured. “If I don’t give it to you, _dominus_ will…he’ll…” His arms began to shake terribly from the strain of holding the jug out to him. “Please. Please, he’ll…”

He flinched when he felt hands cover his own, partially lifting the weight. Fingers brushed over his stumps, gently. “He will hurt you?” Jon asked.

 _He’ll hurt me anyway_ , Theon thought, but just nodded.

Jon sighed and took the jug one-handed, gripping handle. Theon could have cried from relief.

A finger pressed against his chin, lifting his gaze from the floor. Gentle, not at all like Ramsay’s demanding grip. “You weren’t afraid to look me in the eyes last time we met, Tired.”

 _Last time we met was a long time ago_. “My name…isn’t actually Tired,” Theon said.

“I thought it was odd, but what do I know?” A small smile cracked across Jon’s lips. “You have strange names in this country.” His eyes were warm. Nobody had looked at him like that—with warmth and tenderness—since Robb. Theon’s heart sped up. “What are you called?”

 _I am_ called _Reek._

“Theon,” he answered.

“Theon,” Jon repeated, over-aspirating the _th_. “A much better name than Tired.”

“And you’re Jon. I remember you too.”

“It’s your eyes.”

“Huh?”

“I recognized your eyes,” Jon said. His thumb brushed over Theon’s cheek. “You have…soft eyes.”

“Soft eyes?”

Jon furrowed his brow. “Maybe that’s not the right word. In any case, it’s horrible that they make you look away.”

Theon tried to catch his breath, which had suddenly gone out of him. “I—”

“Are you done praying yet?” A harsh voice broke the moment, and Theon realized he’d somehow blocked out the noise all around them, only for it to come rushing back in as a man with a spear stomped over to them. “You’ve had more than enough time to weep over that beast like a woman. Boss wants you back in your cell.” He gestured with his spear. “Now.”

The gaze Jon gave the man was sharper than the spear point.

“Don’t look at me like that,” the man growled. “I know you can understand me perfectly well. You need to get your ass back to your cell.” His eyes landed on the jug Jon held awkwardly with his shackled hand. “What’s that? Where’d you get it?” He reached to take it, but Jon curled his lip and bared his teeth.

“It’s a gift,” Theon spoke up.

The man turned steely eyes towards Theon. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m just delivering it for my master,” Theon said, lowering his head.

“I don’t give a fuck who your master is,” the man said, drawing back his hand to strike Theon. “If I catch you down here again, I’ll—”

He didn’t get to say what he’d do, because Jon lashed out, as quick as a snake, and grabbed the man’s wrist.

“Wha—? Get off me, you fuck!” the man cried and tried to shake him loose. Jon held on tight and they grappled clumsily. The poor jug never stood a chance. As Jon brought his other hand up to ward off a punch aimed at his gut, it fell from his grasp.

The sounded of shattering pottery caused Theon to jump. He stared at the broken jug, uncomprehending for several seconds, until wine began to seep under his sandals. Then he felt as if a strong fist had clenched tightly around his heart. He fell to his knees, fingers shakingly gathering up the shards, as if he might piece the jug back together and somehow get the spilled wine back in. Above him, the men wrestled.

It was a short match. Jon was shackled and wounded, and the other man quickly had him restrained on his knees before another man in a patrician’s tunic came charging at them, flinging his arms about. “What’th this? What’th going on?” the patrician demanded, slurring his words. With his pointed beard, he looked rather like an enraged goat.

“This fucker was causing trouble again,” the guard grunted, and it was apparent he had to use all his force to keep Jon on his knees.

The goat man pointed to Theon. “And what’th this?”

The silence that followed made Theon realize the question was directed at him. “My master…it was a gift… _dominus_ said if the wine never made it to Wilding…” He choked on his words. _We’ll find something new to cut off of you._

“Who’th your mathter?” the goat man demanded.

“Vulcanius Ramsay.”

“I thee,” he said with recognition. “And he wanted to give a gift to my gladiator?”

Theon nodded.

“And who broke your mathter’s gift?”

Theon looked up. Jon was the one who’d dropped it. “Him,” he answered, nodding to the man who had Jon pinned.

“What?” the man cried in shock. “No, I didn’t—”

A loud smack rang out. The goat man had struck the guard across the face. “You broke a potential thponsor’s gift, you idiot.” He then grabbed Theon’s elbow and lifted him up, not ungently. “Tell your mathter that Wildling apprethiates his gift and would very much enjoy his future patronage. There’th no need to mention this little scuffle, ith there?”

Theon looked uncertainly to Jon. “No, thir—sir,” he quickly corrected.

The goat man smiled crookedly and patted his shoulder. “There’th a good lad. Now, why don’t you return to your mathter with the good news? Wildling needs to rest to recover from his woundth.”

Again Theon nodded. He shot Jon one last look. The man’s fierce expression softened just a bit as their eyes met. Theon found he was trembling as he turned and made his way back up the stairs. He was certain Ramsay would see straight through the lie, but at least Jon’s master could confirm it hadn’t been his fault.

 _Until my will has been stripped and all fight has fled from my body, they are_ not _my masters_.

Theon looked at his missing fingers, remembering the last time he’d had the will to fight.

His foot was on the first stair when he felt the skin on the back of his neck began to prickle. On animal instinct, he whirled around to see a dark shape leering at him from the shadows with a single eye. “Well.” Euron’s teeth flashed. “If it isn’t little Theon.”

Theon stood frozen as Euron stepped forward and the torchlight illuminated the dozen cuts and scratches on his face and chest. He was once again a small child on the islands, terrified of this man looming over him.

“I almost didn’t recognize you.” Euron’s eye swept over him. “I’d heard rumors of what happened to you, after the raid on the Sandalius _villa_. Looks like you’ve had a bit of a rough time of it, nephew.”

Theon didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t.

Euron glanced over his shoulder to where the dead bodies were stacked. He had a perfectly good view from over here, and Theon wondered if he’d been watching his conversation with Jon. And how much he might have heard.

“So, your master has an eye on the new one,” he continued, arms folded over his chest. Like Jon, he had been stripped down to his loincloth as well, his armor and weapon nowhere in sight. Somehow it didn’t make him any less threatening. “You might inform him that I’ve already staked my claim on him. So, by all means, send him pretty gifts and niceties. Just know that he’s mine." He gave Theon a lewd wink. “I’m _very_ much looking forward to sticking him with my… _gladius_ when our match comes.”

Theon felt the pit drop out of his stomach, and he turned and ran up the stairs. Euron’s laughter echoed up after him.


	16. xv

“You again?” the man at the gate asked. “Your master send you to deliver another gift?”

Theon nodded and held out at the box as proof.

The guard sighed and opened the gate. “Be quick.”

Theon nodded again and hurried past, clutching his gift. Ramsay had not been best pleased to learn his wine had been spilled, but at least he believed Theon’s account of what had happened and had not taken it out on him. Mostly. He had insisted Theon bring a new gift first thing in the morning, however, as an apology to Wildling.

The cacophony of yesterday had died down, and now the _hypogeum_ was still, though brimming with restless energy. The occasional grumble of some unseen beast echoed through the tunnels, and even more occasionally the muffled voice of a man.

He froze abruptly when he heard two distinct voices chatting, and crunch of gravel under sandals becoming louder as they came nearer. For a moment, Theon felt the urge to run and hide. But then he became aware that one of the voices had a distinctive lisp. Clutching the box, he shuffled forward and turned a corner to find the goat man, Vargo, accompanied by the same guard from yesterday.

“Oi, you,” the guard called, “what are you doing down here?” His eyes widened as he took Theon in, then abruptly narrowed. Apparently the man had a longer memory than Theon would have preferred. “You’re that little shit from yesterday.”

Vargo held out a hand to silence him. “Enough. Keep your tongue thivil when addrething a potential patron’s methenger.” He smiled at Theon. “Well, if you came to check in on Wildling, you can report to your mathter that he greatly enjoyed the wine.”

Theon stared for a moment. Should he mention that Ramsay knew what had happened to his gift? No, definitely not. Instead he held out the little box. “He wanted to give Wildling another gift.”

Vargo’s grin split open to reveal a row of graying teeth. “Exthellent. That can be arranged. By all meanth, follow me this way.” He clapped a hand on Theon’s shoulder, which made him jump like a frightened mouse, and began steering him back down the corridor.

Rows of empty cells greeted him. Well, not entirely empty. In one, Theon saw a tiger pacing back and forth. Its eyes followed them hungrily as they passed.

They came to the prisoners’ cells towards the back, small rooms with thick concrete walls and sturdy bars. Theon could tell which fighters had won several matches, because they had nicer accommodations—mattresses, clothing, food. Jon’s cell had only a cement block with straw for a mattress and a chamber pot in the corner. He was resting on his side, arm tucked up under his head, but his eyes shot at their approaching footsteps. He bolted upright, legs swinging over the side of the bed as he glared at them. His glare softened to surprise when he saw Theon.

Theon took him in. He was stripped down to his loincloth again, with only the bandage covering his chest. It looked like no one had changed it since yesterday, as it was soaked through brown with dried blood.

“You have another gift,” Vargo said, as if Jon were a child.

“It’s healing salve,” Theon explained quickly, before Jon could reject it. “For your wound. My master would very much like to see you healed and back on your feet again soon.”

Jon snorted.

“Good luck with that,” the guard grumbled. “Bastard won’t let anyone treat him.”

The glower Jon gave them was evidence enough. That would explain why nobody had changed his bandage.

“I’m about ready to forth the issue,” Vargo said.

“If you touch me,” Jon said, really leaning into his foreign accent, “I will…”

“You’ll _what_?” the guard sneered.

Jon curled his lip into a snarl.

“I could…maybe I could do it?” Theon suggested. Jon wouldn’t want any of his captors touching him, but maybe he’d trust a fellow slave. The reminder of Jon’s gentle touch against his face yesterday sent a shudder down his spine.

“Well, that might keep anyone from being hurt,” Vargo said, tugging on his beard. “More than they already are, that is.” He leaned in towards the bars. “What do you thay? Will you let him treat your woundth?”

Jon eyed the lot of them darkly, skeptically, and Theon was sure he was going to utter some foreign equivalent of “fuck off.” But instead he inclined his head. “I’ll have him treat me,” he said haltingly. “But _you_ don’t watch.”

“Insolent son of a bitch,” the guard said, and he reached for the small sword—more of a glorified knife—sheathed in his belt. “Don’t need a tongue to fight in the ring.”

Vargo stayed his hand. “There’th no harm.”

“What if he kills your ‘potential patron’s messenger?’”

“I wouldn’t,” Jon answered for him, so harshly it caused everyone’s gaze to snap abruptly to him. “ _I_ don’t hurt defenseless people.” His stone-hard gaze lingered on the slave handlers for a long minute.

“Very good,” Vargo said, finally looking away. “And you won’t cauth any trouble, will you? No, of courth not,” he both asked and answered for Theon.

The guard ordered Jon to stand against the wall while he unlocked the door. Jon did so, and even though the glower never left his face, he didn’t try anything as the door swung open and Theon tottered in. The guard was quick to slam it closed and lock it.

“You have half an hour,” Vargo said, and then he and the guard strolled back down the corridor until Theon could no longer see them by peering out through the bars.

He turned to Jon, who had taken a seat on his bed and now sat gazing at him intently. “He did that to you?” he asked. “Because of what happened yesterday?”

Theon felt at his face, where Ramsay’s fist had caught him on the eye. “It’s not bad,” he answered, even as he winced. “Not as bad as it could have been.”

Jon snorted in disgust. “You’re limping today.”

Theon looked at the ground. “He was…rough last night.”

“ _Cachu_ ,” Jon breathed.

Theon felt his cheeks burn with shame. Perhaps he shouldn’t have answered at all. Now Jon knew he was the submissive one, the one made to take the woman’s role.

“Your chief didn’t help you?”

It took Theon a moment to realize Jon probably meant the magistrate. “No,” he answered simply. “He didn’t.”

Silence passed between them.

“If I ever get the chance,” Jon finally said, “I would like to give your _master_ a gift of my own.”

Theon looked up.

“I would give him the gift of the death he so desperately deserves.”

“You musn’t…” Theon looked around. The handlers were out of sight, but that didn’t mean they weren’t just around the corner, listening in. “You mustn’t say things like that.”

Jon snorted with what might have been laughter. “I say such things to them all the time, sometimes even in a language they understand. I have received lashes and beatings, but they’ll have to take my tongue out, as that idiot threatened, to silence me.”

He leaned back on the concrete slab, wincing slightly as he did so. It seemed his wound was more painful than he let on.

Theon shuffled forward and placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder, an anchoring sort of motion while he reached for his bandage. Jon’s skin was warm and solid, and the sight of his own bony, three-fingered hand brought a new bout of shame, especially when he caught Jon staring. He endeavored to ignore his pitying stare and instead began undoing the bandage, a thick linen cloth that had become stiff from blood, pus, and sweat. It tore away from his skin slowly, revealing the long gash across Jon’s chest—wider than it was deep, but still an angry red seeping blood. Theon rolled up the dirty cloth and prodded the wound with his fingers—his remaining fingers. Jon winced, but more importantly, it was hot to the touch, indicating corruption had possibly begun. The wound really should be scrubbed clean, first, but he didn’t really have anything on hand. He could call the handlers back, but then Jon might become reluctant again. The salve would have to do.

“Lie down,” Theon instructed, and Jon did so. He was all fluid movements and muscles rippling under flesh as he laid himself out flat amidst the straw. Every breath he drew caused his stomach to contract across the hard lines of his abdomen.

Theon swallowed. Gods, but he was beautiful.

He shook his head and berated himself for becoming distracted—Ramsay had often had to discipline him for becoming distracted—and reached for the box. As he opened the lid, the cell was filled with the smell of gentian and aloe. His fingers were remarkably steady as he dipped them in and gathered a bit of the salve.

“This may…sting a bit,” he said, though he wasn’t sure. Hesitantly, he brought the glob of salve to the very far end of the cut, along Jon’s ribs, and spread it as gently as he could.

Jon stared up at the ceiling.

“Does it hurt?” Theon asked.

“I’ve had worse,” Jon answered.

Theon began applying the salve in earnest. Jon’s skin was like warm clay—hard but pliable, giving under his fingers. He felt oddly like a sculptor working over his latest masterpiece. _Pygmalion_ , he thought, again of those Greek stories.

For the first time, his cheeks burned with something else, something not shame. Not exactly, at least.

Jon’s chest abruptly spasmed under his fingers. Theon drew back, afraid he’d hurt him, but Jon just grunted, “Tickles.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re actually quite good.” He shifted ever so slightly. “Please continue.”

Theon did, even more gently this time, as if the slightest movement was in danger of causing him pain. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

“Hmm?”

“I told you I’d mention you to the magistrate. I did, I promise, but…he didn’t help me either.” He wiped at his face with the back of his hand. “I thought somebody would care. But nobody does.”

Jon sat up, startling Theon. His gaze was intense. “You don’t deserve it, you know.”

Theon looked away. “I know,” he murmured.

“Do you?” A warm, callused hand brushed his face, tentatively, seeking permission to touch. Theon leaned into it, almost without thinking. The hand slid up his cheek. Jon’s fingertips probed the bruising at his eye. It was so gentle, and it brought back memories of lying on a hillside in the sun. Jon didn’t smell like Robb, though. He smelled of grit and sweat, but also wood smoke and something else. Something untamed that didn’t belong in a cage.

Gods, he wanted…

He pulled away. He shouldn’t be…

If Ramsay saw him…

“I need to finish,” he said flatly.

Jon stared at him a moment with an inscrutable expression then laid back down.

Theon hurried to finish his work, covering the wound in the salve until the box was empty. Then he turned and rapped on the wall to get the handlers’ attention. “I’m done,” he called.

Vargo and the guard appeared quickly enough that they obviously hadn’t wandered too far. “That was quick,” the guard snorted, unlocking the door.

Theon hurried out, head down. “I applied the salve, but he needs a new bandage.”

“Will he let you apply it?” Vargo asked.

Theon glanced up briefly at Jon, who was watching him with that same inscrutable expression. Was he disappointed? Embarrassed? Pitying? Theon couldn’t tell and quickly averted his gaze once more. “He should be able to apply it himself,” he muttered at the ground. “I can’t stay. _Dominus_ is expecting me back home.”

And he shuffled off before any more words could be exchanged.


	17. xvi

Ramsay was waiting for him when he got back. “Took you long enough,” he said as he materialized from behind a column like a wraith. Theon froze under his gaze. “Everything went alright? Wildling actually _got_ my gift this time?”

Theon nodded hurriedly. “Yes, I—” He cut himself off.

“You…?” Ramsay prompted, stalking towards him.

_I know he got it because_ , _I applied it myself_. “I delivered it straight to him,” Theon answered. He took an unconscious step back as Ramsay hemmed him against the wall. His master’s breath was rank as he leaned in. _He knows. He knows I touched Jon and that I let Jon touch me and that I wanted him to touch me much more_.

Theon held his breath, but Ramsay just patted his cheek. “Well done, Reek.” And with that he pulled back—threat averted, but not gone.

Theon spent the remainder of the afternoon going about his chores as normal. He was set to scrub the floor in the atrium, which was time-intensive and hard on his knees and back, but the worst part was being so close to the food left out on the gods’ shrines—honeycomb and cakes and bread and wine. Nobody was watching him, but he didn’t dare take any of it, even if he hadn’t eaten all day, which was more often than it wasn’t. For one, Ramsay would know. He always knew. Secondly, the gods would know, and though he couldn’t imagine how they might possibly make things worse for him, he knew they _could_.

Things could always be worse.

As he scrubbed and ignored the pinching pain in his stomach, he let his mind wander. To a gentle caress on his face, warm skin, kind eyes. At first the face in his visions had red hair and freckled cheeks that dimpled when smiling. But then it began to shift, ever so subtly. The hair became long, unruly, curling over sharper features. The eyes became grey, turning from unremitting adoration to tender understanding. The body was different too, unblemished, sun-kissed turning to scars and cuts, but no less beautiful. Theon’s face flushed with heat. He shouldn’t…he shouldn’t be thinking about…

He pushed the images and thoughts from his head, focused on the floor in front of him, the way that water stung his chapped hands every time he dipped the rag into the bucket, the way his knuckles bled as he dragged the cloth over the tiles.

He couldn’t think about Jon and his quiet understanding and the gentle way he’d touched him. It was more than a distraction; it was a betrayal. He just wasn’t sure who it was a betrayal of—his master, or Robb.

 

***

 

There was something chasing him. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel its rancid breath on the back of his neck. It wanted to eat him, consume him whole, tear him apart and wear his skin like a pelt.

 He ran through a crowd of grey, faceless people. He screamed for them to help him, but nobody heard. Nobody saw. They didn’t even seem to notice he was there. There were so many of them, you’d think at least one of them would see him, see that he was in trouble and help him. But nobody did. Instead they crowded in around him, slowing him down, blocking his path. He pushed, but they wouldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe for how tightly they hemmed him in.

So many people, but the thing chasing him didn’t want any of them. It wanted him, and only him, and it wasn’t going to stop until it had him.

“Please!” he screamed, until his throat was raw. “Help me! Somebody! _Help_ me!”

He crouched down, hoping he could hide from the thing. He could still feel it, stalking around the crowd as it hunted for him, its breath coming in ragged rasps. He hugged his knees and wept. It was all he could do.

“Shh, shh,” someone shushed in a gentle voice.

He looked up to see a hand held out to him.

“Go on,” the voice said. “Take my hand.”

Theon reached out and took it. The hand wrapped strongly around his own and lifted him up. And he found himself looking into Jon’s grey eyes.

“You?” Theon asked. “You can see me?”

“Of course I can see you.”

Theon looked around. “What about that thing?”

Jon cocked his head. “You mean that thing?” He pointed across the crowd, which magically parted before him. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

Standing at the far end of the crowd, watching the two of them with sunken eyes, was a scraggly, bone-thin Theon. No, not Theon. Reek.

Theon grabbed Jon’s shoulders. “He…he wants to wear me!” he cried in terror.

Jon grabbed his shoulders back. “He can’t,” he whispered in his lilting accent, as if this were some great secret between the two of them. “He can’t unless you let him.”

“It’s not that easy,” Theon protested, and tears of frustration began to form in his eyes. “You act like it’s _so_ easy to say no, to keep fighting. But it’s not. It’s not easy at all!”

A warm hand cupped his chin. “Of course it’s not easy,” Jon said. “If it were easy, there’d be no temptation to give in.”

“I want to give in,” Theon admitted. “I want it to stop hurting.”

“Shh.” He felt lips brush against his cheek. “It’s worth it to keep fighting.”

“Is it?” Theon couldn’t see how. Not when fighting just brought _more_ pain.

“It is.” Jon’s breath was warm on his skin, and yet somehow it sent chills running through his body. “It’s the only way you can keep being you.”

“What if I’m not someone worth being?”

“Then I wouldn’t have seen you. But I do, Theon. I see you.” And without warning, he pressed his lips to Theon’s.

Theon woke up with tears in his eyes.


	18. xvii

Roose came in for breakfast dressed in his legate’s armor, which was not so unusual, as he was often called away for work. What was a bit unusual was that he was wearing a toga over it, and a ceremonial sash draped over his shoulder. Roose was normally an impeccable dresser, but he preferred practicality and utility over everything else, and Theon could not remember seeing him wear a toga on more than one or two occasions. It must be something quite formal.

“Where are you headed today?” Ramsay asked, grinning like a cat.

“A consultation,” Roose answered simply. “Troublesome, to be sure, but General Tywin personally asked I take it on.”

“A consultation?” Ramsay prodded. “About what? Where?”

Roose pulled his lips into a tight, disapproving line. “At the Coliseum,” he finally admitted. “I’ve been asked to recount my experiences from my days in the legions. Apparently Kraznys wants some…historical accuracy for whatever he has planned for the Saturnalia.”

Ramsay’s eyes grew large. “You’ll be getting an up-close and personal view of the fighters, I take it?”

“You’ve not been invited,” Roose added, smoothing down the drapery of his toga.

“I’d behave,” Ramsay pouted. “I’ve been behaving lately, haven’t I? I’ve taken good care of Reek, haven’t I?”

Roose snorted softly.

“I mean, you haven’t had to deal with him. I’ve trained him to not make trouble for us. And you know I haven’t touched any whores _or_ street beggars _or_ other peoples’ slaves in _so_ long.” He clasped his hands together, as if beseeching a god. Theon wondered what god Roose would be, if he were divine. The god of being unimpressed, perhaps. “Please. You won’t even notice Reek and I are there.”

_Reek and I_? He meant to take Theon with him. Theon hadn’t been back to the Coliseum in the last two weeks. Not that that had stopped the occasional dreams of Jon. He suddenly hoped Roose would decline.

“Very well,” Roose said. “But keep that cur in line. And if I hear of any trouble from you, I’ll have you flogged in front of all my slaves. Understood?”

“Understood, Father.”

Ramsay had a giddy step to his gait as they headed for the Coliseum, while Theon dragged his feet. Not enough that he could be scolded—and subsequently punished—for slowing them down, but enough that he certainly wasn’t going to get there first.

He was undeniably eager at the prospect of perhaps seeing Jon again. More than happy. And therein lay the problem. Something would give him away—some look on his face, some gesture. Maybe Jon would even try to touch him again the way he had before. Then again, maybe Jon had been put off by his abrupt exit that day and wouldn’t want anything to do with him.

Theon could only hope. Even if the thought of Jon no longer wanting to see him stole the wind from his lungs as if he’d been punched in the gut.

 

***

 

Nobody stopped Roose at the gate, or questioned who he was or what business he had there. In fact, Kraznys was waiting for them in the tunnel. It was Theon’s first time seeing him up close. He was a bulk of a man, his hair and beard dyed with streaks of garish red. Not the red of Robb’s hair. Not even close. He wore a fine toga that, even with all its drapery, had some difficulty stretching over his stomach.

“Legate,” he greeted, and at a lower pitch—not projected for a crowd of people—Theon could pick up on the distinct Thebian accent in his voice. “Welcome, welcome. Thank you so much for taking time out of your schedule to aid me.”

“Yes, well,” Roose said. That was all. No bland platitudes about it being his honor to be here.

“General Tywin tells me you were in the Battle of Naissus.”

“Many years ago,” Roose confirmed. “I was a new recruit in the legions then, and I’m afraid I was not partial to all of the pertinent information at the time, but I can give you a firsthand account, if that’s what you wish.”

Kraznys wrung his hands. “Oh, very much so. I would love to hear how our forces crushed and repelled the barbarian invasion. You see, I’m planning a special event for the Sa—”

“Yes,” Roose said, interrupting him but also waving a dismissive hand. “We’ll discuss the particulars in detail momentarily. In the meantime, may I introduce my son.” He gestured to Ramsay. “He would like to meet some of your fighters, if you are willing.”

Kraznys blinked a moment. “Of course,” he answered, grinning broadly. “I’ll have one of my men show him around.” He clapped his hands, so loudly the sound rang off the stone tunnels. A moment later, a grubby man in a grubby tunic appeared. “We have another guest who would like to see the fighters’ quarters,” Kraznys explained to him.

_Another guest_?

The grubby man eyed Theon in a way that made his skin want to slough off. “Yeah, alright,” he said. “The more the merrier.” And he jerked his head for them to follow.

They left Kraznys and Roose to their consultation as they headed into the maze of tunnels and cells beneath the stadium. Theon’s heart pattered much faster than their footsteps, causing a strange out-of-sync feeling in his chest. _If Ramsay wants to meet Jon—and of course he wants to meet Jon—I simply won’t look at him at all. I’ll just ignore him entirely_. That thought caused the out-of-sync feeling to intensify.

Soon he heard the telltale echoing of voices in conversation, and he breathed a bit of relief. The voices were fairly level, and someone even laughed, so it couldn’t possibly be Jon. As they turned one of the many sharp corners, Theon’s relief turned to cold dread. No, it wasn’t Jon. It was Euron, hanging in the open doorway to his cell, one arm wrapped around a woman’s waist. The woman was running her hands over his bare chest, pressing kisses to his shoulder, but he wasn’t paying attention to her at all. He was engaged in conversation with a man—a man with a neatly trimmed beard. A man Theon recognized from the stadium.

Baelius.

And standing next to him, arms at her side, eyes downcast, was Jeyne.


	19. xviii

“Reek, don’t drag your feet,” Ramsay hissed, and Theon was forced to pick up his pace, though he mostly wanted to turn and run the other way. Another part of him wanted to grab the long knife from the guard’s belt, run forward, plunge the blade into Littlefinger’s chest, grab Jeyne’s hand, run from there…

All ridiculous. At most he’d be able to make a grab for the knife before they tackled him to the ground.

The conversation between Littlefinger and Euron died away as they approached, and all eyes turned to them curiously. Theon caught Jeyne’s stare first, the distinct time it took her to recognize him. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. Just turned her head away. Theon couldn’t blame her.

She didn’t look well. She was thin, her eyes and cheeks sunken. Her hair had been brushed and braided, and her face painted like a whore’s. Which…she was, if she’d been sent to Baelius. Sometimes, Theon wondered what would have happened if he’d not made a scene that day, if he’d not been chosen by Roose. Which one of them had gotten the worse deal?

It didn’t matter, he supposed. Fortuna hated the both of them.

“Up for more company, Crow’s Eye?” the guard asked.

Ramsay didn’t wait for Euron’s reply. He sprinted ahead. Whereas Littlefinger had the sense to stay at least several paces away from an uncaged psychopath, Ramsay threw himself into the man’s personal space so they were practically chest to chest. The woman in Euron’s arms shrieked and recoiled, but Euron just laughed.

“You’d make a good fighter,” he said. “They like men who willingly charge to their death.”

“Perhaps _you’re_ the one who doesn’t flinch when death come charging at _you_ ,” Ramsay replied. He gave a polite bow. Theon couldn’t remember Ramsay bowing for anyone before. “Vulcanius Ramsay. It’s an honor to meet you, Crow’s Eye.”

“Ah, so you’re the one who sends those gifts,” Euron said. “You’ll forgive me if I didn’t recognize you right away. I have quite a few admirers.” He gestured into his cell, which held a pallet with a thick mattress, a shelf stacked with assorted ointments and salves, several jugs of wine—which Theon would hazard were mostly empty by this point—and an array of fine silks and fabrics draped here and there. He gave the woman’s hip a squeeze, as if to demonstrate that she was one of his gifts as well. “Did you bring me something new today?” His single visible eye landed on Theon.

Ramsay caught his look. “If you want him,” he said without any hesitation. “You’ll find he’s quite accommodating.”

Sweat gathered under Theon’s collar as Euron continued to study him. He wouldn’t take Ramsay up on his offer, would he?

It was the woman’s pout that seemed to decide his mind. “Sorry,” he said at last, scratching at his cheek. “I’ve already accepted Littlefinger’s gift.” He pulled the woman tighter against him. “Perhaps another time.”

Ramsay looked almost disappointed, but nodded. “Of course. Just ask and I can have him sent over right away.”  He gave Theon a rough slap on the ass. “Day or night.”

Euron grinned, revealing blue-tinted teeth. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He acknowledged Littlefinger with a nod of his head. “I’m lucky to have such generous fans. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He pulled the woman into the cell with him. “I’m going to fuck this bitch so hard they’ll have to carry her back to the whorehouse.”

The woman giggled, but Theon caught the way Jeyne’s face blanched.

“Unless you’d like to stay and watch…”

“We have other fighters to visit,” Littlefinger said nonchalantly, and he put a hand on Jeyne’s shoulder. Even though it didn’t appear rough at all, Jeyne visibly flinched at the contact. “Have fun with Falia.”

“We always do,” Euron replied with a wink.

Theon was glad to leave his uncle behind. He was already formulating plans on how to dissuade Ramsay from loaning him out. Perhaps if he initiated sex, and was especially attentive to Ramsay’s needs, he could beg sweetly enough that he only wanted his master’s cock and nobody else’s. The thought sent shudders of revulsion through his body, but it was better than the alternative.

“I would like to meet Wildling,” Ramsay said abruptly as they walked.

“As would I,” Littlefinger agreed.

“Of course,” the guard replied. “He’s right this way.”

And just like that, Theon’s earlier anxieties came rushing back. If he somehow gave himself away in front of Jon, Ramsay would never believe his begging later. He swallowed around the stone that seemed to have formed in his throat.

He refocused on his plan to ignore Jon, which flew out the window as soon as they came upon the sparse little cell at the end of the row. Jon was lying down on his bed of straw—really, what _else_ was there for him to do in there all day?—but lifted his head as they approached. His eyes darted over them, assessing them for threats, and eventually landed on Theon, the tension almost immediately draining from his shoulders as they did.

Theon _couldn’t_ look away. Not with those eyes on him. Not with the relieved look there, as if he’d been anticipating his return.

“Wilding,” Littlefinger said, taking the lead. Jon’s eyes shot to him, narrowing in suspicion. “It’s an honor to finally meet you. I am Baelius Petyr, and I provide certain services to the best fighters here. I was duly impressed with your first showing and would like to present you with a gift.” He pushed Jeyne forward.

Jeyne stood before the bars, trembling like a sapling in a strong wind. A soft whimper escaped her throat.

Jon looked at her. Blinked. And then looked back to Littlefinger, questioning.

“She’s yours for the day,” Littlefinger explained, as if to a child. “You may do whatever you wish with her.”

Jon’s eyebrows scrunched up in confusion.

Littlefinger coughed awkwardly into his hand. “He does…he does speak Latin, correct?” he asked of the guard.

The guard nodded.

“Maybe he doesn’t like girls,” Ramsay spoke up. He pushed Theon forward to stand next to Jeyne. Jeyne looked at him, terror in her eyes. “You can use Reek instead, if that’s more to your liking.”

Littlefinger snorted. “Please, my slave has been professionally trained in the art of pleasing men.”

“And mine has been _practically_ trained,” Ramsay shot back. “He’s sturdy.” He gave Theon a harsh shake, as if to demonstrate he wouldn’t come apart at the seams. “Your girl looks like she’d break in a slight breeze, let alone if Wilding tried to stick his dick in her.”

Littlefinger’s nostrils flared. “At least my girl has all her fingers. It’s an insult to offer that ugly thing to a fighter.”

“Did you hear that, Reek? He called you ugly. Some people just don’t appreciate inner beauty, now, do they?”

“Oi!” the guard finally shouted them down. “Let’s let him choose, eh?”

Jon had gotten up now and stood scowling at them as they bickered.

“Alright,” Littlefinger sniffed. He placed his hands on Jeyne’s shoulders. “Which would you prefer, Wilding?”

Jon’s eyes hardly took in Jeyne at all. He jerked his chin towards Theon.

Ramsay turned and smirked at Littlefinger. “Maybe you need to learn to read men’s tastes better, Littlefinger.”

Littlefinger pulled Jeyne back to him, and she gave a startled little cry. “I suppose it takes a barbarian to know a barbarian.”

The guard opened the cell door and Ramsay shoved Theon roughly inside. As he stumbled, Jon grabbed hold of him to steady him, and Theon found his cheek flush against Jon’s bare chest.

“Don’t suppose you’d be willing to let me watch,” Ramsay asked, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Jon shook his head.

Ramsay just shrugged. “Yeah, alright, I get it. Have fun. I’ll be back for him later.”

The door closed, and Theon watched the tour move on. Jeyne shot him a look out of the corner of her eye. What was she thinking? He wished he’d said something to her, and even then, the urge to call out to her was strong. He didn’t, though. There really wasn’t anything to be said between them that hadn’t already been communicated with their eyes.

After they were gone, Jon released his hold. “I don’t intend to hurt you,” he said.

“I never thought you would.”

“I had to choose one, and the girl seemed frightened of me.” He shook his head in disgust. “Gods, but she’s just a _child_.”

“I promised I would help her,” Theon said. “Only…I’m not sure I can.”

Jon sighed. “In any event, I am glad you are not hurt.”

Theon’s head shot up in surprise. “Me? Why would I be hurt?”

“The way you left so quickly last time…I thought perhaps I had overstepped my bounds and that your…master would punish you for my actions.” He ran a hand through Theon’s hair. It snarled in his tangles. “I’m glad I got to see you again, and that you are well.” He paused. “ _Are_ you well?”

Theon looked down. “Your wound is healing well,” he commented. Jon no longer wore any bandages, and the long cut on his chest was smaller than it had been. “Does it hurt?”

“Only when I laugh.”

Theon stared at Jon’s face for any sign of humor. Had that been…a joke?

“They seem to think I’m healed enough to return to training,” Jon continued. “They plan to pit me against a man next. But I won’t kill a man.” He shook his head. “Not for _their_ amusement.” He gripped Theon’s shoulders, which startled him. “I need your help.”

“My help? What can I—?”

“They let you move about freely. You are allowed to go where you will, as long as you claim it is your master’s wish.”

Theon frowned. “What are you asking?”

Jon leaned in close and lowered his voice. His breath tickled against Theon’s ear in a way that almost felt like déjà vu. His dream. It had happened a lot like this. “I can’t escape on my own.”

Theon let that sink in a moment, then pulled away from Jon. “Is _that_ why you’ve been so kind to me?” he demanded as anger flooded through his veins. “You meant to use me to help you escape?” It was Damon all over again. Betrayal coiled like a snake in his gut.

Jon clamped a hand over Theon’s mouth, pushing him against the wall in the process. “Shh,” he hissed. Theon squirmed in his grip, and Jon leaned in, pinning him with his warm body. He held him like that, both of them panting after their brief scuffle. “I find it sad,” Jon said, “that you think me not beating and raping you is kindness. It speaks to an illness in this country, a rot, and I can’t stay here any longer.”

Theon breathed in sharply through his nose, since Jon was still covering his mouth.

“I don’t intend to use you to escape,” Jon said pointedly, “because I intend to take you with me when I go.”

 

END PART II


	20. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a little Jon hurt/comfort.

“You’re quiet, Reek,” Ramsay noted as they made their way home. “Don’t tell me Wildling fucked your voice raw.”

“No, _dominus_ ,” Theon said, being sure to add an exaggerated limp to his step so that Ramsay would think otherwise.

_“Tell your master…” Jon had said. “Gods, I hate calling him that.”_

_“Call him Ramsay.”_

_“Tell Ramsay that I enjoyed his gift indeed, and that I would like to see you again. Often.”_

It was insane, what Jon was plotting. It would never work. It was doomed to fail from the beginning.

And yet, Theon felt the faintest rekindling of hope in his chest.

To escape. To escape with Jon.

His heart fluttered.

_“Why would you want to take me with you?”_

_“Because you understand. You were willing to help me before, when we were strangers. True, it was misguided help, but you’ve become stronger since then.”_

_“Stronger?” Theon had scoffed, flexing his seven-fingered hands. If anything, he’d become weaker._

_Jon had taken his hands, cupping them gently. “You’ve survived, just like I have, and you owe that to nobody but yourself. The man who would beg his chief for help is only standing with me here today because of himself.”_

Theon looked to Ramsay, walking a few paces ahead. Yes, he’d done a lot of survive. Horrible, debasing things. But…he was alive, and he was still Theon. Perhaps Jon was right. Perhaps he was stronger than he gave himself credit for.

The idea of trying another escape still terrified him. He remembered his last attempts—was forced to every time he looked at his own hands, felt the scarring on his insides. But his last attempts had failed because there’d been nobody to help him. He wouldn’t be alone this time.

 

***

 

Over the next few weeks, Ramsay sent him to the Coliseum frequently, usually with a gift and an order of, “Do what he tells you to.” Apparently he’d been flattered that Jon had chosen his gift over Littlefinger’s, whereas Littlefinger had taken it as an insult. On the occasions he saw Littlefinger skulking around at the Coliseum, Littlefinger would glare hatefully at him before returning to whatever conversation he’d been engaged in.

The guards came to expect Theon’s visit fairly quickly and would usher him in without a word. It almost felt like being a man of status again. He was allowed to spend as much time with Jon was he wanted, on Ramsay’s orders and Vargo’s permission. The goat man seemed likewise overjoyed that Ramsay had taken such an interest in his fighter and instructed the guards that Wilding was absolutely not to be disturbed when Theon was visiting, which gave them time to sketch out their escape in hushed whispers.

Theon was even granted access to the stadium itself, to watch the gladiators train. While Jon was still recovering, he had been sent back to remedial training to get back into peak physical fitness, but gradually rejoined the other light armor fighters as they practiced their blows and parries on straw-stuffed dummies. It was mesmerizing to watch Jon with a _pilum_ or a _gladius_ , swinging and ducking and expertly striking the dummy. Theon realized how easily he probably could have taken that wolf down; his reluctance to harm the animal had been what had drawn the match out so long. But watching him work with intent, the sinuous way he moved and the surety of his thrusts bespoke of a highly trained warrior.

He was beautiful to watch. _He truly is Heracles_ , Theon caught himself thinking more than once.

“Where did you learn to fight?” he asked after one such training session, dipping his rag into a bowl of water and wringing it out. Jon’s skin prickled as he ran the cloth over his back, cleaning away the grime and grit that clung to him, especially in the myriad scars.

“My father taught me.”

“In your homeland?”

“Yes,” Jon answered, and Theon felt a little stupid for asking such an obvious question. “In my homeland.”

“What is it like there?” Theon asked as he continued to clean his body of dirty. He figured that if he was to escape with Jon, and Jon meant to return to his homeland, then he would be headed there as well. Might as well learn what he could.

Jon was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “It is not as miserably hot there. It rains often, and in the morning, thick mists roll down from the mountains. I used to go out with my mother sometimes, and she said you could hear voices in the mists, that they were spirits trying to lure you into the half-world.”

“Did you hear voices?”

“I’m not sure,” Jon answered. “Everything sounds different in the fog.”

Theon finished bathing his back and rewet his rag to start on his chest.

“You don’t need to do that,” Jon said. “I can reach everything else on my own.”

“I want to,” Theon said.

Jon breathed out through his nose but didn’t protest as Theon started on his chest.

“Does it ever snow here?” he asked.

“Not often. Mostly in the mountains.”

“It snows everywhere in my homeland,” Jon said, “in the winter. It covers the land in a thick layer of white, and everything is very still and quiet.” He lifted his head and stared at the ceiling. “It’s beautiful.”

Theon _may_ have taken his time washing Jon’s chest. It was satisfying, wiping away the grey dirt and revealing the hard, clean lines beneath. The stomach was a bit more difficult, because Jon was ticklish and kept tensing when Theon passed over with the cloth.

“A ticklish warrior,” Theon said with a grin.

“You look nice like that,” Jon commented.

Theon looked up in confusion.

“When you smile.”

Suddenly aware of his broken and missing teeth, Theon snapped his mouth closed.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, “I didn’t mean…” He placed a hand on Theon’s hand to still his ministrations with the rag. “I just like to see you laugh. You have a face that was meant to smile.”

“My sister said the same thing…except she also said that when I smiled my face was meant to be punched.” He offered a lopsided, tight-lipped smile to show it had been meant in fondness. Jon…did not like others insulting Theon.

“You have a sister?”

“Had,” Theon corrected. “Have. Maybe. Who knows? She ran off when things started getting bad.” He gently pulled out of Jon’s grip so he could keep cleaning his body. “She had the right idea of it.”

He rewet the cloth and realized he’d reached Jon’s loincloth. He hesitated. Should he…?

“I’ll do that myself,” Jon said, gently taking the rag from him. “You shouldn’t have to see.”

“See what?”

“It’s nothing. It’s just—”

“Is it a wound?” Theon asked, suddenly alarmed.

Jon hesitated. “It’s healed.”

“Let me see it,” Theon demanded. Knowing how Jon had dealt with his last injury, Jon’s assurances that it had “healed” did not exactly console him.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“What if it’s been infected?” Theon demanded. “A corrupted wound can kill a man, or at the very least slow him down.”

Jon’s brow creased in worry, as if this thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“If we’re to escape,” Theon said, lowering his voice, “we need to trust each other. And I need you to trust me.”

Jon sighed, hesitated another moment, and laid stomach-down on his straw mattress, awkwardly fiddling with the strap to his loincloth. “It’s unsightly, is all,” he said. The leather fell away to reveal the shapely swell of his ass, and the shiny, puckered scar on his right cheek.

A goat’s head. Someone had taken a branding iron to him.

“For escaping,” Jon explained. “Vargo said I needed to learn whose property I was.”

Theon stared at the swollen scar, several months old at this point. It looked like it had healed properly, at least. Burns in particular were susceptible to corruption and were painful as they healed. But more than the pain, the humiliation of being branded as another man’s property had to have cut Jon deeply. Theon understood his reluctance to show him.

“I’m sorry they did that to you,” he said quietly.

Jon didn’t say anything. Just buried his face in his hands and growled in frustration.

Theon hurried to finish Jon’s legs and feet. The sensuality of the moment had fled. When he was done, he tossed the rag into the bowl and gathered both. “Thank you for letting me see,” he said as he waited for the guard to come let him out. Jon was so strong and so beautiful, sometimes it was hard to remember that he had lost a lot from fighting against his masters as well.

 _They are_ not _my masters_.

No, Theon supposed. He was still fighting them after all.


	21. xx

The escape plans were coming along in starts and stops. Theon thought he could pretty easily convince the guards that he needed to escort Jon somewhere without any security, but that would only get them so far.

“How did you escape last time?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“They only sent one guard to escort me from my cell,” Jon said. “I overpowered him and ran.”

“How did you get past the gate?”

“There was a broken grate. I barely fit through,” he admitted.

“Do you think you could find it again?”

Jon shrugged. “I barely remember anything from that night. Just that I went down a tunnel and there was an opening.”

Theon made a surreptitious search of the corridors on his way out that day. He figured it couldn’t be too far from Jon’s cell. Making note of the various twists and turns, he eventually found it. A drainage grate, with a hole no bigger than what a stray dog could fit through. He was amazed Jon had managed to squeeze through at all. Peering out through the rusted bars, he noted where it appeared to come out on the other side, and double-checked when he was out on the street. It was far from the gated entrance or any other posted guards.

A bit of luck to be sure, but that still wasn’t the most difficult part. Jon had made it that far before, after all. No, the real problem was where to go once they were out. During their respective escape attempts, both of them had been caught quickly—Theon multiple times.

They needed a way to get out of the city in such a way so as to not draw attention. Disguises, perhaps? They would not make it very far on foot, as Theon could attest from his previous escape attempt; the memory of it still made his throat ache from phantom pains of screaming.

Jon was growing impatient. Or perhaps nervous, more likely. “Vargo says I am to fight again soon, during one of your festivals.”

“The Saturnalia, yeah,” Theon said. He’d seen the advertisements in the forum.

“Can we be gone by then?”

“I don’t know,” Theon admitted. The Saturnalia was soon, and he needed more time to plan. If they were to stand any chance at all, they couldn’t afford to rush.

“I won’t kill for them,” Jon had said with renewed determination.

And yet he continued to train with a single-mindedness Theon found mesmerizing, partly because he knew the real reason for it. Not so that Jon could better kill opponents in the arena, but so that he could better kill the men who called themselves his masters.

 

***

 

During training, Theon was relegated to one of the many gated entryways into the arena, so that he would not be “underfoot” while the fighters practiced. That was fine by him, as long as he had a view of Jon.

He’d once tried to pick up a training _pilum_ —only with the intention of handing it to Jon—and had been surprised by how heavy it was. Granted, the strength of his hands was not what it had once been, what with his missing fingers, but Jon had later confirmed the training weapons were heavier than the ones they were expected to use in combat.

There was a woman who trained with them. An honest-to-gods gladiatrix. Apparently she was a new acquisition. Theon had seen her advertised in the forum recently: a Gaul by the name of Bear Maiden. She was enormous, even by men’s standards, and yet Theon had still been shocked—and not a little impressed—when she easily lifted one of the _pila_ and launched it across the arena, skewering one of the dangling dummies with ease.

“She’s a big one, isn’t she?” a voice like slithering snakes said.

The skin on the back of his neck prickled as he felt someone come up behind him. He forced himself to stand perfectly still, to not turn around to meet his uncle’s gaze.

“I’d like to tangle with her,” Euron went on, heedless of his nephew’s discomfort. Or perhaps acutely aware and enjoying it. Probably the latter. “I’ve never had a woman who could truly put up a good fight before, but I bet she could. What hole do you think I should fuck when I subdue her?”

Theon didn’t look at him _or_ answer. His skin felt like insects were crawling all over it.

“Fun to think about, for sure,” Euron said, and Theon could _hear_ the malicious glee in his voice. “But the one I’m really looking forward to is your boy out there.”

Theon’s heart stuttered.

“He’s prettier than her.” Euron snickered. “Not that that’s saying much. She’s the ugliest woman _I’ve_ ever seen. So maybe it would be more fitting to say he’s prettier than the little whore Littlefinger gives me. I’ll enjoy making a woman out of him, the way he makes a woman out of you.”

Theon didn’t want to listen any more.

“Where are you going?” A hand snatched roughly at his upper arm and yanked him back. “Oh, I didn’t strike a nerve, did I?” Theon squirmed, but Euron’s grip was like an icy vice. “Is there something wrong with Wilding’s cock? Is that why I never hear you screaming when you’re with him? That must be very disappointing.”

“Let go of me,” Theon hissed. His skin felt like water in a boiling pot, roiling to burst. “You don’t have permission to touch me.”

Euron chuckled and leaned in close. His sickly sweet breath ghosted over Theon’s ear. “ _I_ could make you scream, if your master’s offer is still open.”

Theon whirled to give him a sharp-tongued reply, but he never got the chance. Because in that instant, Jon’s fist was connecting with Euron’s jaw. Euron released his hold on Theon, who jumped back as if he’d been burned by a hot iron.

Euron stumbled and caught himself. Rubbed at his jaw.

“Keep your hands off him,” Jon said, clenching his fists, a promise for more violence. He looked to Theon. “Are you alright?”

Theon nodded, but froze as Euron began cackling. The sound was like broken glass crunching together and made Theon’s teeth grind. “Was wondering when you’d intervene, Wilding,” he said.

“You wanted my attention?” Jon snarled. “You got it.”

“Jon, no!” Theon cried as Jon launched himself at Euron, who caught him by the wrists.

They grappled together, Jon trying desperately to land blows while Euron just laughed. He gave an _oof_ as Jon brought his knee up and hit Euron squarely in the balls, knocking the wind from him and giving Jon the advantage. Jon tackled him to the ground and began landing punches to his face and chest. He was like a wild animal, like a wolf.

It took Euron longer to recover this time, and when he did, he fought back with equal ferocity. He was larger than Jon, but they seemed evenly matched. Every time Euron rolled to pin Jon, Jon would leverage himself up to reverse their positions. They kicked up a great gout of dust, so that they almost appeared two wild dogs caught in a fight.

“Hey! Hey!” The guards had noticed and run over. It took four of them to tear the two men off each other. Jon earned a spear butt to his head when he tried to claw his way back to Euron.

Euron, however, gave off the fight, still laughing around his now-bloody lip. “We’ll have our match,” he said. “In good time. But not here, not now. I’ve getter bigger plans for you.” He pointed out to the rows of seating, empty now. But Theon remembered the noise from when they’d been filled, the chanting and cheering. “And I’ll tame you in front of all of them. Let every eye in Rome see me own you. You think you belong to Vargo? No.” He shook his head. “You belong to _me_.”

“Put them back in their cells,” the head trainer said in disgust. “They’re done training for the day.”

Theon followed after the guards carrying Jon between them. “Piss off,” one of the men grumbled, but Theon persisted.

“I need to check him for injuries,” he said. “I’m the only one he lets tend him. Or maybe Vargo would like to hear about how you’ve been knocking his prized fighter senseless.”

The guards looked to each other, deliberating between themselves.

“Alright,” the other guard said.

Jon looked to have been stunned by the blow to his head, because he was half-limp in their arms. The guards had to carry him into his cell and set him down on his bed. Theon hurried to Jon’s side and cradled his head.

“Jon, can you hear me?”

Jon’s eyes rolled up. He muttered something in his own language.

Theon pried his eyelids open to see if his pupils were blown wide. It would be very bad if they were. They weren’t though, and in fact, they focused in on Theon. Jon blinked and pulled his head away. “I am fine,” he said.

With a skeptical snort, Theon went about feeling Jon’s head. His fingers slid through the dark curls, prodding. When Jon winced, he knew he’d found the spot. “You’ll have a bump,” he said. “But I don’t feel any blood.” His eyes scanned over Jon’s body. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Jon waved him off. “With any luck, that bastard got it worse.”

“You shouldn’t have picked a fight with him,” Theon said. “My uncle…he’s a dangerous man.”

“That man is your _uncle_?” Jon said in disgust.

“I don’t think he would have hurt me,” Theon lied. “He was just trying to get a rise out of you.” He remembered Euron’s leer that day in the tunnels, after the matches. _I’ve already staked my claim on him_ , he’d said. “You should stay away from him.”

Jon snorted.

“I’m serious,” Theon said, and there must have been something in his voice, because Jon turned to look at him. “When you threw yourself at him, without even thinking…” He felt his own hands clench and unclench. “Gods, you remind me of him so much sometimes.”

“Your uncle?” Jon demanded.

“What? No…” Theon hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud. But he had. And he couldn’t very well leave Jon thinking he and Euron had anything in common. “Robb.”

“Robb,” Jon repeated.

“The boy…man…I lived with before Ramsay.” He couldn’t meet Jon’s gaze. “I loved him.” He wished he’d told Robb when he was alive. He liked to think Robb knew, but he should have _told_ him. “His recklessness got him killed.” _And me. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t rein him in._ “Please, you can’t die on me too. I don’t…I don’t want to be alone again.”

Jon was quiet for a long moment. “Someone left me alone too.”

When Theon looked up at that, Jon’s eyes were far away.

“Yeah?” Theon prodded. Maybe Jon didn’t want to talk about it.

And for another long moment, it seemed like he wouldn’t. But then he continued. “Her name was Ygritte.” He grinned, despite himself. “She was strong and fierce…and never shied away from speaking her mind. She had this… _red_ hair.”

“So did Robb,” Theon said.

“Kissed by fire, we used to call it,” Jon said, idly playing with bits of straw from the mattress. “And she _was_. She had so much energy, and she could warm you or burn you…you had to be careful.” He chuckled softly to himself. Then his grin fell away. “She was reckless too. She…she shouldn’t have been in that ambush. I tried to get her to stay behind, but you couldn’t make Ygritte do anything she didn’t want.”

Silence took hold again, as they commiserated without speaking. The sense of understanding hung heavily between them.

Finally, Jon reached out and placed a hand on Theon’s cheek. Theon had never told him how much he liked that—the gentle feel of Jon’s palm on his face—but he must have given some indication, because Jon did it often.

“I get protective sometimes, because I don’t want to be left alone again either.” His thumb brushed a tear from Theon’s eye he hadn’t even been aware of. “No, I won’t leave you on your own, Theon. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note: I'll be going on hiatus for a brief period of time. I've got some work to take care of, but I hope to get back to posting by Friday.
> 
> See you then.


	22. xxi

He was lying on a hillside in the sun. There was no pain. When he flexed his fingers and toes, he found none of them missing. And lying next to him, head propped up on one hand, was Robb. His other missing piece.

“It’s a dream,” Theon murmured to himself. He’d come to recognize them now.

Robb smiled at him, so luminous. “I know you loved me, Theon.”

“I still love you.”

“I still love _you_.”

“Do you mean that?” Theon asked. “Or is that just the dream telling me what I want to hear?”

“Does it matter? Deep down you must realize it’s the truth. You know I couldn’t wait for us to be together.” With a grunt, he sat up. “But _you_ can’t keep waiting for _me_.”

“Hmm?” Theon didn’t want to sit up. He wanted to keep lying here, in the warm grass, forever.

“My ferry’s passage has already been paid, Theon. I’m in Elysium right now, with Mother and Father. And though I would love for you to join us one day, I want it to be a day very far from now.” He looked out over the rolling hills. A slight breeze stirred his hair. “There are others who need you in the land of the living. Jeyne. Sansa. Arya. Bran and Rickon.” He paused. “Jon.”

“Robb.” Theon sat up then and grabbed Robb’s arm. He felt so solid under his grasp, not like a dream at all. “I haven’t forgotten you. I promise.”

Robb smiled at him. “I know.” He leaned in and kissed Theon’s cheek. “But I give you permission to.”

“No, never.”

“Not forever, no. But you can’t stay trapped thinking about what happened, what mistakes you may or may not have made.” His hand gripped the back of Theon’s head and pulled him in close. “I never blamed you for what happened. It was my fault, my arrogance. My _hubris_ , as your Greeks would say. I wish I had done a better job of protecting you.”

Theon swallowed thickly. He had so much he wanted to say, but it stuck in his throat.

“I’ll be waiting for you here.” He kissed Theon’s forehead. “Theon.”

“Reek!”

Theon sputtered awake, disoriented. The soft grass under his body had turned to a cold, hard floor, and Robb’s smiling face had turned to Ramsay’s ghoulishly grinning visage. Before he could stop himself, Theon recoiled from his master. It was still night—still dark—so why had Ramsay woken him? A game? A punishment? Had he done something wrong? Doubtless, yes, though he’d never know what until Ramsay explained it to him.

“Wake up, Reek,” Ramsay said, with a giddy air to his voice. “Today’s a very special day. We’re taking a trip.”

Theon didn’t ask questions.

 

***

 

The house was dark and silent. No one else was awake. They met Damon at the entrance and didn’t put their sandals on until they were outside. That Ramsay didn’t give Theon a lantern until they were out on the main street cemented the fact that this was an outing Roose was probably not supposed to know about. Damon wore a wineskin strapped over one shoulder and carried a box tucked under his arm, a box from which emanated the occasional panicked scritching. Theon wondered what creature they had in there, but supposed he’d find out before the night was over.

In a line, they set out, for what destination Theon had no idea.

Ramsay’s footsteps were sure and he walked with a purpose Theon hadn’t seen from him before, even while touring the _hypogeum_. It was difficult keeping up with him, minding his missing toe while holding the heavy lantern in his left hand, which, after all, had more fingers than his right one.

Neither Damon nor Ramsay spoke, and so neither did Theon.

After quite some time, passing through some rough neighborhoods, the sound of running water came to his ears. Not a crashing sound, like the ocean, but loud and powerful nonetheless. The Tiber, he guessed, though his grasp of the city’s layout was still hazy. A few minutes later, he could smell it, earthy from runoff and human waste. The air felt thicker, like it was about to rain. Theon lifted the lantern, but the circle of light did not penetrate very far and he could not see the river.

The sound and smell grew stronger, then gradually lessened, and it seemed they were heading away from it now. When they turned a steep corner, Theon knew for certain they were leaving the river behind. The street widened out and the buildings rose up all around them, edifices held up by rows up columns that dwarfed any tree Theon had seen in his life.

He’d never been one for public worship, but anyone would recognize a temple for the gods when they saw one. They’d come out on the other end of the _Via Sancra_ , before it opened up into the _forum_. The largest temple—the _pantheon_ —lay at the crisscrossing intersection of several streets. An entire forest of those larger-than-life tree columns made up the _portico_ and held aloft a triangular _pediment_. Behind that, a great dome swelled like the impossibly smooth hump of some sea creature.

But Ramsay was more interested in a humbler temple. Single-storied, open to the air, smaller than the Vulcanii _domus_. A single torch ushered them in and cast grim light on the gray stone.

“Come on,” Ramsay said, the first words he’d spoken since they’d left the _domus_ , and gestured for Theon to keep up. As if Theon had any choice in the matter.

Inside, a single priest stood tending the fire. He looked up as they entered.

“We’ve come to pay homage,” Ramsay announced and held out his hand. A few coins glinted in his palm. “And a little something for the temple as well, eh?”

The priest looked left, right, left again, and then took the coins. “Always a pleasure seeing young people take an interest in their faith,” he said and scuttled away, head bowed.

Beyond the fire, a statue of Pluto greeted them with a look of divine indifference on its face. The god of the earth and all below it sat on his throne, his two-pronged scepter in one hand and the keys to the underworld in the other. Theon blinked, memories of his dream prickling at the back of his mind—Robb talking to him from Elysium. What were the odds…? Had it truly been a message from the other side? He couldn’t imagine any god caring enough to grace him with such providence. Pluto’s sightless eyes stared out over him, unseeing, uncaring.

As he stared up at the statue, Ramsay crooked his fingers for Damon hand over the box. Theon blinked again and watched as Ramsay cracked the box’s lid and jammed his hand inside. There was a mad scuffle and a shriek, and Ramsay’s face was triumphant as he pulled out a squirming black rat.

“Ah, it’s a good one,” he said as it wriggled in his grasp. “Nice and fat.”

“Thanks,” Damon said, taking the empty box from Ramsay’s other hand. “Took me a while to catch that one.”

Ramsay drew a small dagger sheathed in the folds of his tunic.

Theon watched it all with a strange detachment. Even his muttered, “You can’t sacrifice vermin,” was detached. He didn’t realize he’d protested until his own words were ringing back at him from the walls.

Damon and Ramsay looked at him as if he’d claimed there were actually a thousand humors instead of four.

“It’s profane,” Theon explained, as if they needed it explained to them.

Ramsay turned to him, idly flicking his dagger back and forth. “First of all, who gave you permission to speak, Reek?”

Theon glanced at the floor. “Sorry.”

Ramsay likely did not catch the missing “ _dominus_ ” at the end of his apology, because otherwise he would have said something. Instead, he simply sneered, “We’ll deal with your loose tongue later.” He gestured with his blade to the statue. “Secondly, this isn’t for old Pluto up there. It’s for one of my friends he’s keeping on the other side.” He held the rat up as if proposing a toast. “This is for you, Heke.” He jammed his dagger into the vermin’s belly. It squealed shrilly.

Theon had once been to a sacrifice, where a white bull had been offered to Neptune. He had been very young, but he still remembered how beautiful the animal had been, how the priests had kept it calm and subdued as they’d slit its throat. How it hadn’t made a noise as it slumped to the ground, bright red blood spilling onto the ground.

The rat’s blood looked black in the dim light, running in thick rivulets over Ramsay’s hand, down his forearm, dribbling onto the marble statue. It twitched in its death throes.

Death with dignity pleased the gods. A noisome death was an ill omen.

Theon hoped the gods knew none of this had been his idea.

Ramsay dropped the rat at Pluto’s feet, where it plopped in a furry, gory mess. Damon unstrapped the wineskin and handed it over to Ramsay, who unstopped it and took a long pull. He came up for air shaking his head. “Gods, that’s awful stuff. Heke would’ve loved it.” He gave it over to Damon to take a drink, then upturned the rest of the contents at the statue’s base. Wine mingled with blood; it all looked black in the dark.

“You’re making a mess,” a voice called out to them.

Theon’s heart stopped as he pictured divine fire raining down on them from on high. He wasn’t the only one to jump either. Both Ramsay and Damon spun as two figures emerged from the shadows.

The taller of the two was a large, well-muscled man in a slave’s tunic. He had an exceptionally hard set to his jaw. The other one, his master, was a slight youth, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, wearing a toga of indeterminate color. As they drew closer and the light from Theon’s lantern fell across them, Ramsay cried, “I know you!”

Theon knew the youth too. Or rather, the maiden, though she appeared to all the world to be a boy. Her hair had been cropped short, and with her long face, she did look like an exceptionally delicate young man.

Sandalia Arya.

“Aurelius,” Ramsay said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's good to be back.


	23. xxii

“Aurelius, right?” Ramsay prodded again. “From the betting matches.”

Arya smirked that way Theon had often seen her smirk at Sansa, full of mischief. The smirk fell away when her eyes landed on Theon, though. He saw the recognition there, only for a brief moment, quickly replaced with a _look_. A _don’t-say-anything_ look.

So he didn’t. He didn’t say anything. Just continued to hold the lantern. He noticed neither Arya nor her companion had any light with them at all.

Ramsay spread his bloody arms wide. “So, what are you doing skulking about in a dark temple at night, Aurelius?”

“The same as you, I imagine,” Arya said, addressing herself to Ramsay. “You can call me Arry, by the way.”

“Heh,” Ramsay smirked and held out the empty wineskin. “I’d offer you a drink, but…”

Arya held up her hand. “No, it’s for the dead, I understand.” She leaned against one of the pillars and eyed the rat with a crooked grin. “Interesting choice…”

Ramsay snorted. “You don’t believe in that bullshit about ill omens and fate, do you?”

“I think it’s all the same to the God of Death.”

“Him?” Ramsay pointed to the statue.

Arya smirked. “The god of the dead is not the same as the God of Death.” She jerked her chin towards the god’s visage. “That’s just one mask He wears.”

Theon wondered what she meant by that, but of course didn’t ask.

“I’ve been meaning to catch up with you again,” Arya went on. “I enjoyed betting with you at the last gladiatorial matches.”

“Likewise,” Ramsay said with a tight grin.

“I’d heard you have an in with Baelius Petyr, the man they call Littlefinger.”

“I know him, passing. Why? Interested in his wares? You might want to wait until you start shaving.”

Arya made a show of examining her nails. “I want to speak with him. I have a business proposition he might be interested in.”

“Ah? You think?” Ramsay said dubiously, but with a definite hint of amusement in his voice. “Well, I’m curious. Littlefinger hates me, and I can’t stand the cunt myself, but I’d be happy to introduce you.”

“Actually, I would prefer you to introduce my manservant.” He gestured to the man at her side. “This is Gendry, and he represents my business interests.”

“A loyal man, is he?” Ramsay winked knowingly at Gendry. “Loyal slaves are hard to come by. And worth their weight in gold.”

“Gold is cheap,” Arya said, face as stony as Pluto’s statue. “Loyalty is beyond price.”

Ramsay smiled tightly. “Right you are.”

Arya cocked her head, as if listening for a faint sound. “It’s late,” she announced. “We’ll leave you to your prayer. Gendry will be in communication with you soon.” She nodded to the silent Gendry, and with that, the two of them swept out of the temple like a couple of shadows. Theon wondered if Damon or Ramsay felt the chill they left behind in their wake.

“ _Dominus_ ,” he said, so suddenly it came out louder than he intended.

Ramsay spun on him, as if he’d been jerked out of some trance. “What have I told you about speaking without permission, Reek?”

“Sorry, _dominus_ , but I…I need to relieve myself.”

Ramsay waved his hand dismissively. “Then go relieve yourself.”

“Thank you, _dominus_.” Theon turned to go.

“You want me to keep an eye on him?” Damon asked.

“You want to _watch_ Reek take a piss?” Ramsay barked in laughter. “He won’t try anything, will you, Reek?”

“No, _dominus_ , no.”

Theon skittered out of the temple. He hoped Ramsay would mistake his hurry for urgency. Once outside, he looked up and down the street. No sign of Arya. He stumbled a few paces, peering up and down alleyways. “Aurelius,” he called as loudly as he dared. Even if Ramsay didn’t hear, the peacekeepers might. “Arry.” He lowered his voice to a hiss. “Arya!”

A hand slapped over his mouth, stifling his startled cry. He was dragged into one of the dark alleys and pushed up against a wall, where he found himself staring into Gendry’s scowling face. Something sharp and cold pressed against his throat, and he realized it was Arya, holding a knife.

“Don’t use that name. _Ever_ ,” she hissed dangerously.

Theon nodded. Against Gendry’s grip and Arya’s knife, he nodded.

Arya bared her teeth. “I’ve worked too hard to set myself in this position. I know you won’t even _think_ about exposing me.”

Theon shook his head.

Arya breathed out through her nose and took the knife away from his throat. “You can let him go, Gendry. He’s a…friend.”

Gendry released Theon. “A friend?”

“He worked on my family’s _villa_. Well…‘worked’ is a generous term. Mostly he drank our wine and distracted my brother.” She sheathed her knife into her toga. “You look awful, Theon.”

“I had a dream about Robb!” Theon blurted.

Gendry made to cover his mouth again, but Arya stayed his hand.

Theon lowered his voice. “He said you would need my help.”

“You look like _you’re_ the one who needs help.”

“Maybe we can help each other. You’re trying to kill Littlefinger.” It wasn’t a question.

“Killing him will be a mercy after what I have planned for him,” Arya said.

“I can help.”

She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing him. “How?”

“I see him sometimes, at the Coliseum, when I…I go there often on errands for Ramsay. He knows me as Ramsay’s slave. He doesn’t know I came from your family’s _villa_.” _He doesn’t know that I’d kill him myself if I could_. “I can get close to him, spy on him for you without him suspecting anything.”

Arya thought for a moment. “Yes, that might be useful. I need someone to find out if he knows Sandalia Arya. She remembers him, certainly, but maybe enough time has passed since last he saw her that he wouldn’t recognize her face from a young man’s.”

She did look different. If he hadn’t seen her almost every day, her rebelliousness getting her into nearly as much trouble as him, he likely would have dismissed it as a strange likeness on a stranger’s face.

“I can ask,” he said. “I can be very discrete about it.”

“And what would you like in return?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m afraid I don’t have the means to buy your freedom.” She gestured to her fine toga. “It’s mostly for show, you see.”

“I don’t think Ramsay would let me go for very cheap,” Theon said. Or possibly at all. Especially now that Theon was his perpetual ticket into the Coliseum. “But there is something else. I don’t suppose…would you happen to have access to a covered carriage? One that could transport people out of the city?”

Arya eyed him. “I might know some less-than-reputable people who move less-than-reputable goods.”

Smugglers. How did Arya know smugglers? What had she been up to in the months she’d been missing. He didn’t have time to ask. He’d already been gone too long and Ramsay would be missing him.

“Could you get in contact with them? Before the Saturnalia?”

She twisted her lip into a scowl. “On such short notice?”

“Could you?”

She looked to Gendry. They consulted silently for a moment.

“I can try,” she said at last. “But I make no promises. I might not even be able to track them down before then, let alone set something up.”

“Thank you,” Theon said. “Thank you so much. I’ll get you the information you need, I promise.” He paused as a thought came to him. “I saw Sansa. She was sitting with Littlefinger at the last gladiator match.”

Arya’s eyes widened in surprise. “Sansa?” She had never gotten along with her older sister, but there was a genuine note of concern in her voice as she asked, “How was she?”

“She was…unhurt,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “from what I could see. I just…thought you would like to know.”

Arya nodded absently, almost as if to herself. “Yes. Thank you.”

With a subtle gesture to Gendry, the two of them turned to go, receding back into the dark alleyway.

“Wait!” Theon called after them. “How can I find you again?”

Arya looked over her shoulder and smirked. Not the mischievous smirk he knew from his days at the _villa_ , but something more sinister. Something that sent a chill down his spine, despite himself. “Don’t worry,” she said. “ _I’ll_ find _you_.”


	24. xxiii

Theon told Jon about his meeting with Arya—in hushed tones, of course—when he saw him next, two days later. Jon listened with a grim but determined face. “Do you trust her?” he asked after Theon had finished.

“I don’t know,” Theon admitted. “I think so. She’s Eduardus’s daughter. He taught his children to hold honor as high as piety.” _Robb always took his teachings to heart._ He didn’t say this, though. In the end, honor had not saved Eduardus or Robb from the scheming of more dishonorable men. “It’s strange, though. I knew her the whole time I was at the Sandalius _villa_ , but the way she was that night…she was like a completely different person.”

“She was disguised as a boy,” Jon pointed out.

“I mean, something else. There was something about her eyes…” He couldn’t quite describe it. Something about the way the light had reflected from her eyes…or rather, not reflected. They seemed almost dead. He remembered his dream about Reek wanting to wear his skin and shuddered. “In any case, and I’d rather keep her in my good graces by upholding my end of our deal.”

He stood to go.

Jon reached for his hand. Their eyes met, and Theon thought he read Jon’s intent: _I don’t want you to go._

He was a bit startled. Maybe he’d misread or…of course, besides training, Theon was the only thing really breaking up the monotony of his days, trapped alone in this little cell. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from Arya,” he said by way of comfort.

Jon’s stare was intense. “Stay safe. Remember that talk we had about recklessness?”

That startled him again. “Littlefinger won’t hurt me. He wouldn’t dare. The only upside to being somebody else’s property.”

Jon didn’t laugh at his poor attempt at a joke. “Just be careful,” he said before releasing Theon’s hand.

He left Jon behind to find Littlefinger. He’d hoped to catch the man at the Coliseum, but no such luck. Of course Fortuna was withholding her favor, but hopefully she wasn’t actively working against them for once.

At least he knew where he could probably find the whoremonger, and he didn’t have to ask around too much before he found someone who could point him in the right direction. Littlefinger’s whorehouse wasn’t too far from the Coliseum, in Caelian Hill District. And there, among the barbershops and markets and public servicemen’s offices stood the two-storied _lupanarium._ Theon had to admit, compared to the brothels he’d seen on the islands where he’d grown up, it was a veritable palace. Women lounged about outside, dressed in garishly colorful and sheer silk that…displayed their wares, as it were.

There was a time when Theon would have returned their winks and blown kisses with his own, but now only a deep discomfort settled under his skin as he approached, head down. He was ashamed to meet their gazes.

Inside, the smell of incense and smoke assaulted his nose and throat. There was a well-lit hallway with a dozen or so cubicles branching off. Some of the doors were closed, with a placard announcing they were occupied. The ones that were opened had a placard with a name and price on it. A young man sat manning a desk, idly strumming a lyre. He gave Theon a forced smile as he approached. “Are you sure you have enough coin to be in here, friend?”

“I’m here on behalf of my master.”

“Yes, and?”

“Vulcanius Ramsay. He has a query for your employer.”

The _villicus_ ’s smile tightened. “I see. Well, as Littlefinger is a busy man, perhaps I can answer your master’s query.”

“I doubt it,” Theon said, his tone taking on a bit of an edge that really was unacceptable for a slave. “It concerns the gladiator matches.”

The man sniffed. “Then I’m afraid you’ll just have to come back at a later time. My employer has much more pressing issues to attend to than some—”

“Marillion,” a voice interrupted, and both Theon and the _villicus_ spun around to see Littlefinger himself coming down the hall. “I can always make time for an old friend.”

The _villicus_ ’s smile fell away as he bolted to his feet. “Yes, sir, I just—I was just—” Littlefinger’s smile shut the man right up. He ducked his head. “Yes, sir.”

Littlefinger made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Come, let us speak in private, uh…Reek, was it?”

“Yes, sir,” Theon said, and followed the man down the hallway.

As they passed rooms with open doors, Theon could peer in to see prostitutes lounging on beds within, in all states of undress. In one, a young man lay sprawled out on his stomach, arm draped limply over the side of the bed, eyes rolled back slightly in his head. The placard on the door said his name was Satin and he wasn’t cheap.

_That could have been me_ , Theon thought. Drugged, waiting for the next customer. At least Satin didn’t seem too aware of what was happening around him.

It wasn’t worth thinking about except in passing, how different his life would have been if he’d ended up here—for better or worse. He’d made a decision that day—an ignorant decision based on the misguided notion he was _too good_ to end up in a place such as this. It was perhaps the one thing he couldn’t blame on Fortuna.

Littlefinger beckoned him up the stairs, to an office with a window looking out onto the street. The man must have seen him approach from a ways off. The slave that had stolen away his chance at gaining favor with Wildling. As Littlefinger closed the door behind them, Jon’s warning echoed in his mind. Littlefinger wouldn’t dream of hurting him, would he, just to get him out of the way? Perhaps he’d made a mistake coming here.

But Littlefinger just gestured to a reclining couch. Theon sat, awkwardly straight, while Littlefinger took his own seat in a wooden chair behind a desk. “So, what does Ramsay wish to ask of me?”

Theon hesitated. Suddenly the questions he’d been rehearsing in his head the last two days didn’t feel right.

“He saw you with a woman at the last gladiator match,” he finally managed to get out, somewhat stumblingly. “A pretty woman with red hair.”

Littlefinger’s smile immediately soured. “I’m afraid she’s not for sale.”

“He…he figured as much,” Theon hurried to explain. “She’s obviously a lady of some standing. He just wasn’t familiar with her, is all, and wanted to know who she is. He thought she might be your daughter.”

“She’s my ward,” Littlefinger replied stiffly.

“Oh,” Theon said, wondering how Sansa had gone from Leonius Jaime’s care to Littlefinger’s. “So…she has no other family?”

“No,” Littlefinger said. “I’m responsible for her wellbeing, and I have no intention of letting your master anywhere near her. You can tell him she is not looking for a marriage proposal. I provide for her quite well on my own.”

“If I may ask, what happened to her family?”

“You may not ask,” Littlefinger said. “It’s no business or yours or your master’s. Sansa is…” He stopped abruptly, perhaps realizing he’d given away too much information.

“Her name is Sansa?” Theon asked, feigning surprise. “It’s a very unusual name. Pretty. She wouldn’t happen to be…I mean, I’d heard Sandalius Eduardus had a daughter named Sansa.”

Littlefinger sat up in his straight-backed chair. “You heard about that, did you?”

“I think all of Rome heard about it. Quite unfortunate. I’d heard Eduardus and his wife were killed, and their oldest son…what was his name?”

“Robb,” Littlefinger answered without thinking, and Theon hated Robb’s name on this man’s tongue. _You shouldn’t get to say his name,_ or _Sansa’s_.

“What of her other brothers and sisters?”

“None survived.”

“Truly? That must be terrible. Not only for Sansa, but for yourself, seeing as you were so close to the family.”

“Mmm,” Littlefinger said noncommittally.

“I’d heard rumors that some of the Sandalius children escaped the raid on the _villa_.”

“You hear quite a lot for a slave,” Littlefinger said, folding his hands on his desk and pinning Theon with a skeptical gaze. “I think I know what this is about.” Theon felt sweat began to gather under his collar. Perhaps he’d overstepped his bounds. “Your master is fishing for a bride. Well, you can tell him, on behalf of her lawful guardian, that Sansa is already spoken for, and that her only sister did indeed flee during the raid but was later tracked down and killed.”

So, he thought Arya was dead? Or he wanted everyone to believe she was dead?

“A shame,” Theon said. “Especially if she was only half as beautiful as Sansa.”

Littlefinger had the audacity to smirk. “By all accounts, she was not.”

“By all accounts?”

He shrugged. “I had not seen the girl in some years. I gather she resembled her father more than her mother, and not in her favor. Perhaps that will assuage your master somewhat. Now, if you have no further business…”

He began to stand, but at that instant, the door slammed open and red-faced, half-dressed man barged in, angrily tying the cinch in his tunic. “That’s it, Littlefinger!” he bellowed. “I’ve tried—gods help me, I’ve tried. But that’s it, the final straw. I want my money back!”

“Meryn.” Littlefinger sprang to his feet and came around the desk. “Whatever’s wrong?”

The man jabbed an accusing finger at him. “You know damn well what’s wrong. It’s that girl. She won’t stop crying. I told you what would happen if she cried again.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Meryn. Jeyne is still adjusting and—”

“She’s had plenty of time to adjust!” Meryn roared. “I’m done!”

Littlefinger sighed. “Marillion will refund your money and give you a voucher for your next visit.”

Meryn grunted and finished tying his cinch with an angry tug. “You’re lucky I’ve had good experiences with you in the past.” And he stormed from the office.

A moment of silence passed before Littlefinger seemed to remember Theon was there. “I have a matter to deal with,” he said, “so if you could show yourself out…”

Theon thought he could hear the faint sound of weeping from down the hall. How many Jeynes could Littlefinger have working for him?

“Actually, there was one more thing,” Theon said quickly. “Uh…Wildling…”

Littlefinger’s eyes narrowed.

“He says he would be interested in seeing the girl you brought him the other day. The one with the brown hair.”

“Truly? He didn’t seem interested before.”

“He’s a man of strange tastes.”

“Indeed,” Littlefinger agreed, eying Theon up and down. “Very well. I will bring the girl with me during my next visit. Thank you for letting me know.”

As Theon left the brothel, he hoped his last-minute request would keep Jeyne from being too harshly punished, as she would need to be in “working” condition to meet with Jon. It had been the only thing he could think of at the moment. Of course, now he would need to explain to Jon why a mousy-haired girl would be showing up at his cell, probably crying her eyes out.

_Jeyne_ , he thought, _I haven’t forgotten about you either. I promise_.

If at all possible, he would take her with them when they escaped.


	25. xxiv

Theon spent the evening before the advent of Saturnalia desperately waiting for Arya or Gendry to contact him. But the sun broke in the east and he had neither seen nor heard from her since that night at the temple, four days ago now.

Ramsay was practically giddy as he dressed Theon in one of his nice tunics—the finest thing Theon had worn since…well, since he’d become a slave, but by far the nicest thing he’d worn since he’d come into Ramsay’s care. “Isn’t this fun, Reek?” he asked as he made adjustments to the cinch. After all, Theon was quite a bit thinner than Ramsay. “We get to switch roles for today. It’s almost like _you’re_ the master and _I’m_ the slave.”

Theon nodded in agreement, but was taken by surprise when Ramsay shoved him up against the wall, grip tight on his neck.

“But it’s just for play,” Ramsay hissed sibilantly. “You know that, right, Reek?”

“Yes, _dominus_. Just a game.”

Ramsay smiled and patted Theon’s cheek and then turned to get his own simple tunic on. Not one of Theon’s, as those were too small and too ratty besides. Simple but fine enough that no one would _actually_ mistake Ramsay for a slave.

They met Damon in the hallway, also dressed in a fine, if ill-fitting, tunic, and also a _pilleus_ , normally the mark of a freedman. “Reek,” he guffawed, “you almost look human.”

“Don’t go putting nonsense thoughts into his head,” Ramsay mock-scolded.

“Now, Rams, that’s no way to speak to your _dominus_.”

Ramsay grinned back. “Sorry, _dominus_.”

It was a game between them, Theon realized. They likely did this every year. He wondered how far they took it. From the way Roose _glowered_ at them from the corner, they took it rather far indeed.

Roose was dressed in a red and pink _synthesis,_ and looking about ten times as uncomfortable as when he was forced to wear a toga. He was surely not a man of revelry, but Kraznys had offered him a personal invitation to the games, after all, and it would be rude not to show. Roose _was_ a man of decorum and propriety, if nothing else.

Theon kept glancing around as they made their way to the Coliseum, looking for any signs of Arya. There might still be time to escape before Jon was forced to fight.

And perhaps even die.

No! Theon scolded himself for that thought. Jon was a great fighter. Granted, he wasn’t familiar with the name of today’s opponent, but he still had faith that Jon would emerge the winner. He had to. Because if not…

Again, he dared not think it.

_He promised he wouldn’t leave me alone._

It felt as if every person in Rome, free or not, had shown up to see the festivities kicked off for the first day of the Saturnalia. The _forum_ was packed so tightly Theon was pressed in between Ramsay and Damon, and even Roose. So close he could feel Roose’s armor under his robe. At least with the turning of the season it was not so unbearably hot as it would have been with all these bodies crammed together. The flow became choked at the stadium’s entrance, like sand in the neck of an hourglass.

Theon could barely breathe, pressed so tightly as they passed through the archway. Or perhaps because he felt his last shred of hope vanish. Even if he found Arya now, even if she had gotten in contact with her smugglers and set up a meeting plan, he wasn’t in any position to escape himself. Jon was probably already being armored up and prepared for his fight. He’d been delusional to think they could stop this.

People in garish, colorful outfits crowded together in the stadium, heedless of seating arrangements. The air was jubilant, full of laughter and excitement. It felt almost like they were mocking Theon’s dread.

He found himself seated very close to the front rows, between Ramsay and Damon, and right behind Roose in his place as honored guest. It was a much different sensation than looking down from above. Theon could see the faces of the men doing a final sweep of the arena ground, could see their expressions easily, even their teeth as they laughed with each other. The dread became heavier in his gut. On the one hand, he was closer to Jon; he would be able to see everything that happened. On the other hand, he would be able to _see_ everything that happened.

 It felt an interminable amount of time passed, sitting in a sea of noise, before the barred gates opened and the procession marched out onto the field with the blare of trumpets. Saturn, of course, was the honored god—his temple’s treasury funded the matches—and it was his image borne out behind the _fasces_ -bearers, along with his consort Lua, to whom the fallen enemies’ weapons would be offered by burning afterwards.

Kraznys came out again, dressed in a garish _synthesis_ of his own. He raised his hands over his head as he addressed the crowd, but Theon could barely focus on his speech. The same drivel about the Empire and its people. In his life before, he might have been hanging on the man’s every word, cheering along with the rest of his countrymen, but now it felt like the hollow platitude it really was. He almost felt relief when the procession parted the field, even if it brought Jon’s fight closer to reality.

A gate on the far end of the arena opened, and out walked Jon, dressed in his armor. The leather had been mended where the wolf had clawed through it last time; Theon hoped it would be more effective against a weapon than a beast. Jon’s hair had been combed and tied back, out of his face and so that it couldn’t be used against him in the fight. Theon ran a subconscious hand through his own matted hair, thinking of how Ramsay loved to snarl his hands in it to gain control over him.

Jon threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun; his other hand held a _gladius_. The crowd cheered for him, and Theon felt almost a hint of pride mixed with the nausea in his gut.

“You put your money on Wilding again?” Damon asked.

Ramsay snorted. “Of course. That’s my boy down there.” He nudged Theon. “Why don’t you give him a little wave, Reek? Maybe seeing you will motivate him to fight better. You know, so he can fuck you again real good?”

Theon wasn’t sure if Ramsay was joking or not.

“What about the other guy, this Halfhand?” Damon went on, and Theon realized Kraznys must have mentioned the opponent’s name while his mind had been wandering. “I heard he’s an old-timer.”

“For a gladiator,” Ramsay said, “that’s an accomplishment.”

“Is it true he’s never lost a fight?”

Theon’s throat spasmed.

“Obviously,” Ramsay said, “or he wouldn’t still be alive and walking around, would he?”

Theon forced his throat to relax. Right. _Right_. Jon had never lost a fight either, technically.

 Another gate opened and out stepped a man armed with a _spatha_. He was indeed older, though Theon could only tell because of the silver hair, tied back in a braid. The man had no stoop to his back, no limp to his gait. He stood tall and proud, wearing leather armor strikingly close to Jon’s. Theon saw the startled look on Jon’s face as he realized it as well. Were they…countrymen, perhaps?

Theon gripped his knees tightly. _Oh, Jon_.

The crowd absolutely roared as the Halfhand took the field, carrying a chant of his name. He was well-known, apparently.

The two gladiators came to meet in the middle of the arena. Theon could see words exchanged between them. He couldn’t hear what they were—and if his suspicions were correct, they wouldn’t be in a language he’d understand in any case—but they seemed congenial. Jon’s expression remained grim.

“Begin the fight!” an official in the stands cried.

The older man brought his sword up, left-handed, while Jon was slower to match him. The Halfhand was not a starved wolf, and his actions were calculated, measured as they began to circle each other. Theon could see him sizing Jon up, reading him.

Jon was still speaking, and Theon could only image what he was saying: _We don’t need to do this_. But they did. If the both of them threw down their swords now and refused to fight, then they would both be killed. How could Jon not understand that?

The Halfhand struck first. His sword was like liquid metal as it slashed through the air. Jon danced back, missing the tip by what had to be a hair’s breath. With no pause, the Halfhand swung again, and this time Jon wasn’t _quite_ fast enough. The blade caught him on his unarmored arm, slicing through his tunic with ease. A slash of red appeared on the white material.

“Jon!” Theon cried before he could stop himself, but his voice was drowned out by cheering all around him.

Luckily Jon had not been hit on his sword arm, and he recovered quickly enough to bring his _gladius_ up to meet the Halfhand’s follow-up strike. Metal hit metal. Theon could hear it from here. Or maybe he just imagined he could hear it.

The blades slid against each other, until both fighters pulled back. The Halfhand went in with another thrust, which Jon met, but he had yet to make an attack of his own. He’d never win if he remained on the defensive the entire time.

The Halfhand feinted right, and lashed out with his _spatha_ as Jon went to block. The blade caught an unsuspecting Jon across the stomach, and for a moment time stopped. Theon saw images flash before him—blood spurting from an open wound, pooling in the dirt, color draining from a face once so full of life…

But a metal blade was not a wolf’s claw, and it slid off the leather armor without cutting through to the skin beneath.

Theon blinked the images away as time started up again. He didn’t realize he’d bitten through his lip until he tasted copper in his mouth. “Come on, Jon,” he whispered. “You can do it.”

Jon, caught off-guard by the strike, stumbled. Just a step, but enough for the Halfhand to sweep his feet. Jon landed on his back, raising a cloud of dust into the air, stunned. When he tried to rise, the Halfhand placed a booted foot on his chest and pushed him back down, pinning him. He said something, something inaudible, but whatever it was, Theon saw the moment Jon’s eyes glazed over in defeat. The Halfhand lifted his sword for a downward thrust.

“No!” Theon leapt to his feet. He wasn’t the only one. Half the stadium was up, cheering, booing, calling for Jon’s death, calling for Jon to get up and fight. “Get up!” Theon screamed. “You promised, Jon!” He willed Jon to hear his voice above all the others. “You _promised_!”

Maybe Jon did hear him. Maybe not. _Something_ changed, at least. He hardened his brow, gritted his teeth. His hand shot out and grabbed the Halfhand’s ankle. The old man stopped in surprise as his feet were pulled out from under him, and he staggered to regain his balance. And in that instant, Jon pulled himself to his knees and thrust up with his _gladius_.

The Halfhand slumped forward, mouth gaping open as blood poured from his throat. The spatha fell from his hand and he grabbed hold of Jon’s arms, staring up at him. Jon grabbed him back and eased him to the ground. He laid the old man on his back and held his hand as he drew in ragged, futile gasps.

Damon had been right: Seated this close, you _could_ see the light go out of their eyes.

Jon lowered his head, and Theon could see him mouthing a prayer. He continued until two armed and armored guards came out onto the field, along with an un-shrouded priest of Saturn, to escort him out and haul away the body. At least, that was what Theon presumed, until one of the men drew his sword.

Theon wanted to call out to Jon, to warn him. But the guard’s blow didn’t land on Jon’s exposed and unprotected neck. Instead it struck the Halfhand’s throat, hacking into the wound Jon had already started. Blood spattered over Jon’s face, and he blinked in surprise. Theon knew the exact sensation, the confusion in the moment before you realized you’d been covered in another man’s blood.

The guard pulled his sword out, struggling to pry it free from the gore, and swung again. It took him several tries to get the head fully dislodged from the body, and when he did, the priest bent down to retrieve it, grabbing it by the silver hair and hefting it high overhead. “This warrior’s death has pleased Saturn!”

The stadium erupted into cheers. A chant of, “Wilding! Wilding!” arose, growing into a fevered pitch.

Jon just sat staring up the sky, face dripping with blood, until the other guard prompted him to get to his feet and escorted him out of the arena. Jon went without any fight. His eyes looked like those of the dead man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone order a heaping helping of poor Jon? 'Cause that's what I've got cooked up.


	26. xxv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Jon hurt comes with a side order of Jon comfort.

Theon watched Jon being escorted off the field for a long moment before snapping back to himself and into action. He jumped to his feet and pushing past Damon. “Reek?” Damon sputtered in surprise, but Theon just kept climbing over people, practically swimming against a human current to get to the aisle. Angry shouts followed in his wake, but he ignored those as well.

He needed to get to Jon.

There was virtually no resistance once he reached the aisle, though he was aware of Ramsay and Damon, belatedly, giving chase. The already upset spectators fought harder against them, yelling at them to get back in their seats. Which gave Theon time to skip up the stairs and slip out the entrance. The guards posted at the archway were meant to keep the riffraff out, of course, not prevent anyone from leaving, and they didn’t give Theon any more grief than a pair of confused looks.

Theon made his way around the path and winding series of tunnels he had come to all but memorize over the last few weeks. He even recognized the man guarding the gate to the _hypogeum_. “Please,” he said, terribly out of breath. He supposed his feet hurt too, but that wasn’t important at the moment. “You have to let me in to see Jon—Wildling.”

“Sorry,” the guard said, not sounding it. “I’m not supposed to let anyone in while the matches are still going.”

Theon clasped his hands. “Please. Wilding…Wilding was hurt,” he hurried to explain. “You know I’m the only one he lets treat him.”

The guard smirked. “Sorry, I can’t allow it. You’ll just have to let the surgeon do his job.”

Theon gritted his teeth in frustration, but he didn’t have time to argue with this man. For one, Ramsay would likely catch up with him soon. For another, every minute he spent arguing was one where Jon was left to deal with what had just happened on his own.

He turned and ran from the tunnels, out onto the street, following around the outside of the Coliseum until he came to the spot he’d found the other day, where the broken grate let out. He clambered down into the drainage ditch, ignoring the skin-crawling sensation of dirty water sloshing over his sandals. He had to get on his hands and knees to fit through the grate, and the nice tunic Ramsay had dressed him in that morning soon became sodden with things Theon would rather not think about. The squeeze through the grating itself might have been tighter had he been his normal weight, but with his half-starved thinness, he slipped in easily enough.

He crawled until he could stand again, and then he ran.

He’d forgotten what a cacophony the _hypogeum_ became during the games—the shouting, the bellows of animals, the crack of whip and clanking of metal. It echoed off the closed in walls, and for a moment he was disoriented. He shook it off as best he could and made for Jon’s cell. Surely that was where they had taken him to treat his injury.

He was shocked to find Jon, stripped once again of his armor, sitting calmly on his bed while the Coliseum’s surgeon prodded his wound and the guard who had escorted him from the field looked on. His face, still covered in blood, was placid. He stared at the wall and hardly even flinched when the surgeon began flushing his wound with vinegar.

“Jon!”

Jon’s head swung around. “Theon?”

Theon gripped the bars of the cell. “Let me in.”

“Piss off.” The guard frowned and smacked Theon’s hands with the butt of his spear, but Theon held on.

“Please, I need to see him.”

The guard made to smack him again, but Jon cried, “No, he’s right.” He turned and gave a harsh shove to the surgeon, who let out a startled yelp. “Out! Out! Nobody touches me but him, understand?”

The guard growled and made to restrain Jon.

“Thtop!”

Everyone stopped as Vargo appeared at the cell’s entrance.

“There’th no need to rithk harming him any further.” Vargo gave Theon a knowing look. “Let the boy tend him.”

Jon looked almost grateful, for a moment. Then he seemed to remember who he was being grateful to, because he scowled deeply. He didn’t put up any further fuss, though, as the surgeon gathered up his supplies and the guard unlocked the cell door. On the way out, the surgeon shoved a roll of cloth bandages into Theon’s hand. “Don’t wind them too tight,” he muttered. Theon didn’t care how disgruntled the man was. He pushed his way through and grabbed Jon’s face. Blood smeared on his hands, and Theon almost recoiled— _another body, covered up to his elbows in another man’s blood_ —but Jon’s focused gaze kept him in place.

_Alive_ , Theon told himself. _He’s alive_. _It’s not his blood_.

“Privacy,” he called out. “Can we have some privacy?”

“Give them some privathy,” Vargo ordered and shooed the gawkers away.

Once they were gone, Theon turned back to Jon. “Are you alright?”

Jon shrugged the shoulder with his wounded arm. “I’ve had worse.”

“No, I mean…” Theon swallowed and took a moment to wipe away some of the blood dripping down Jon’s chin. “You killed that man.”

Jon’s face remained impassive. “I’ve killed plenty of men.”

“Not in the arena.”

“I had to. He was going to kill me.”

“Yes, but—”

“I bore him no ill will,” Jon explained, voice disturbingly level. “He bore me no ill will.”

“Did he tell you that?”

Jon was silent.

Theon reached for the hem of his tunic to wipe away the blood, but he realized it was dirty with drainage water, so he used the roll of bandages instead. It seemed much more important to get the dead man’s gore off of Jon than to bandage his wound.

He worked in silence until Jon said, “He knew where my village was.”

“So…he was from your homeland.” Theon tried to make it a question, but it still came out as a statement.

Jon nodded and closed his eyes as Theon cleaned the blood from his lashes.

“He gave me permission to kill him,” he said hollowly. “He said it would be an honor to die by a fellow countryman’s hand, rather than a Roman’s. He said it would almost be like dying in his homeland.” His voice caught. “They were chanting my _name_ , but I didn’t do it for them.”

“I know.” Theon used his tongue to wet the cloth and scrubbed at a particularly stubborn bit on Jon’s forehead, at his hairline. He felt rather like a mother bathing a young child. “I know.”

The cloth jerked as Jon lowered his head and covering his face with his hands. His shoulders began to shake.

Theon dropped the cloth and put his hands on Jon’s bare shoulders, feeling the man tremble as he wept. “It’s alright,” he said, lamely. He’d never been good at comforting…anyone, really. And Jon continued to weep, clearly not comforted at all. So working on awkward instinct, he pulled Jon to him, and Jon allowed it, burying his face in Theon’s chest. The nice tunic Ramsay had given him, already strained with drainage water, soon became soaked with mingled blood and tears. “Shh,” he said, running his hand over Jon’s tied-back hair. “Shh, it’s alright.”

It was the only thing he could think to say.

He had dozens of stories he could tell Jon, about the things he’d done to survive, how the only important thing was that he _had_ survived. But that wasn’t what he needed to hear right now. So instead he let Jon cry for several long moments, then slowly pulled him back and took his face in his hands again.

Jon’s bloodshot eyes looked into his, confused and searching, needing. Theon wasn’t sure he had what Jon needed, but he had something, at least. So he leaned in and kissed, just gently, one tear-stained cheek and then the other.

“ _Theon_.” It came almost as a purr. The next thing he knew, Jon had grabbed the back of his neck and smashed their lips together.

Theon drew in a startled gasp. For an instant, he tasted Jon—earthy, coppery, just a hint of something sweet—before pulling back.

“I—I’m sorry!” Jon cried, and he reached out for Theon, looking uncertain whether he should touch him or not. “I was—”

Theon shielded his mouth with his hand. “My teeth.”

“Did I hurt you?” Jon’s face quickly came alive with concern.

Theon shook his head. “You might have cut yourself on them.”

Jon stared at him, uncomprehending for a few seconds. “Is that it?”

“The broken ones are sharp.”

“But you didn’t…I didn’t scare you, did I?”

He’d startled him, yes, but not scared. “Warn me next time, so I can cover my teeth better.”

“Next time?”

Theon closed the distance between them again. He felt the other man’s frame stiffen in surprise, and then Jon was once again wrapping his hands around the back of Theon’s head to draw him in deeper. In return, Theon pulled at the tie holding Jon’s hair back. It was frustratingly difficult with his missing fingers, but well worth the reward when those thick curls were finally free and he could run his hands through them.

Jon invaded all of his senses. The taste of him—he thought that hint of sweetness might be clover; something green at least. The smell of him—the blood and dust from the arena, but also dark forests and hidden caves, something fascinating but unknowable. His hair and skin were slick with sweat, rough with grit, and it just made him more solid and real.

He almost panicked when Jon finally pulled away, only to realize that he was also breathless. Breathing heavily, Jon leaned his forehead against Theon’s. They were silent for a long moment.

“It’s alright,” Theon finally said in a whisper. “It’s going to be alright. Arya will come through for us. And then we can leave all of this behind. Reek and Wildling…leave it far behind.”

Jon nodded. “Thank you for coming,” he said.

“I had to. When I saw…” Theon sat up. “Shit, I need to get back. Ramsay will be looking for me.” The thought caused his throat to clench up. He’d run from Ramsay, disobeyed his _dominus_ ’s orders. His punishment would be harsh. He only hoped Ramsay wouldn’t take it in his head to cut off another toe or burn the soles of his feet again, something that would delay their escape plans.

He stood up to call the guard back, acutely aware that he hadn’t actually tended Jon’s wound at all, the only reason he’d been allowed in in the first place. The guard appeared quickly, accompanied by Vargo himself, who had a twisted smirk on his face.

“Come,” he said as the guard unlocked the cell, “your mathter is waiting for you outside. I told him you would be out jutht as thoon as you were finished with Wildling.”

Theon lowered his head in gratitude for the small kindness. The man could have easily come in the minute he’d learned Theon was here without permission and ripped him away from Jon.

At the door’s threshold, he cast one last look over his shoulder. Jon looked so weary, his shoulders slumped, dark circles beginning to form under his red-rimmed eyes. He looked more like Atlas bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders than Heracles. But he gave Theon a smile and a nod.

“ _Diolch_ ,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diolch = Thank you


	27. xxvi

Theon spent the walk back waiting for the thread to break. Ramsay hadn’t struck him, hadn’t even so much as scolded him beyond a mild chiding that he shouldn’t run off like that and what had he been doing to get his tunic so filthy?

They met Roose back at the _domus_ , already back in his dress tunic, the _synthesis_ likely packed away for next year, despite there still being several more days of the Saturnalia left. “I see you managed to track down your slave,” he commented casually as they came through the doorway.

“Oh, yes,” Ramsay said. “Reek was just so excited from the fight, he couldn’t wait to get Wildling’s cock in him. Isn’t that right, Reek?”

Theon wasn’t sure how to respond, so he didn’t.

Roose spared the three of them—him, Ramsay, and Damon—a brief, contemptuous glance before turning back to the stylus he’d been poring over. “See that he’s cleaned up. Dinner is to be served in an hour.”

“Yes, Father,” Ramsay said and ushered Theon down the hall to his room, where he quickly stripped him, tutting like an old hen the entire time. “Honestly, Reek, were you rolling around in the sewer? I let you dress up for one day, and you can’t even keep yourself decent.”

“Sorry, _dominus_.”

“I suppose Wildling likes it like that, though,” Ramsay mused as he began to scrub Theon down with a cloth from the bowl of water he kept by his bedside. “I hear they rut in the mud up in those barbarian lands. Sometimes even with animals. Maybe that’s why he’s taken such a liking to you.”

Theon didn’t speak, just shivered as the water chilled his skin.

Once Ramsay had gotten the dirt and blood off him, he tossed the dirty rag back into the bowl and went to his chest of drawers. “I have half a mind to make you eat dinner like that,” he said, “completely naked.”

Theon stared down at his feet.

“But you might put everyone off their supper, so I’ll give you something else.”

He pulled a folded sheet of fabric from the chest, carried it over to Theon, and unfurled it in front of him. It was a toga, the chest and sleeve stained a dark pink. The one he’d stained his first night here, the infraction that had earned him a beating and rough throat-fucking. Theon swallowed.

“What’s wrong, Reek? You don’t want to wear it?”

“Whatever pleases you, _dominus_.”

Ramsay grinned and began dressing him, draping the folds over him with care. Theon had often worn a toga before he’d become a slave. He’d had one with gold trim that he especially thought made him look dashing—like someone rich and important. As the weight of the clothes settled on him, it was almost like returning to a long-forgotten dream, a life that hadn’t been his for so long.

He felt emotion well up behind his eyes, and bit the inside of his cheek to keep tears from spilling. This was part of Ramsay’s game, and he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing him weep.

When he was done, Ramsay stepped back and admired his work. “Yes, that’ll be just fine. Just fine indeed.” And he took Theon’s hand and led him out into the hall.

Damon did a double-take when he saw them, and Theon could see him searching for something appropriate to say—something cutting but not something that could be taken as an insult to Ramsay. In the end he opted to say nothing, and together they headed for the family hall.

No reclining couches tonight, just stools enough for the entire household around the table laden with a Saturnalia feast, albeit a humble one. Roose was waiting there for them. His eyes narrowed as they fell upon Theon, but he, too, made no remarks.

“Good Saturnalia!” Ramsay crowed, and the slaves all averted their eyes. “Now, I know we usually have Damon as our King of Misrule, but this year, I would like to nominate Reek.” He yanked Theon’s hand up into the air. “What do you say?”

The slaves murmured half-hearted agreement. Roose said nothing but watched in obvious displeasure.

Ramsay grinned in triumph. “Then I hereby crown Reek this year’s King of Misrule. Come, Reek, come.” He pulled Theon to the head of the table and made him sit down on the stool there. “What will be your first order, my king?”

Theon sat stunned. He wasn’t sure what game Ramsay was playing, if he was meant to give an order or not. He would likely be punished either way. “Uh…shall we eat?” he hazarded.

“Reek orders everyone to eat!” Ramsay called.

The atmosphere felt more like a funeral than a festival as everyone began helping themselves.

Ramsay heaped a plate high with food—meat and fruit and bread and cakes—and set it down in front of Theon. Theon looked at him expectantly, watching for the catch. Perhaps he was meant to sit here all evening, with this food in front of him, watching the others eat, but not partake of any himself. But Ramsay clapped him on the back. “Eat up, my king. Have your fill.”

Theon decided he would risk punishment later, and soon he was shoveling food into his mouth, hardly aware of the pain in his teeth from chewing. Ramsay had never allowed him to eat so much before, not in one sitting, not in an entire day. He couldn’t force it down fast enough, pausing only to wet his throat with wine.

Nobody spoke. The only sound was chewing and the occasional clinking of plates. It was the grimmest Saturnalia feast Theon had ever witnessed. On the islands where he’d grown up, there had been public banquets that went on long into the night, full of laughing and singing and bawdy stories passed around. The islanders reveled their few days of chaos and freedom. Even the Sandalii had thrown a lavish, days-long party, where the wine from their _villa_ flowed freely and he and Robb would get fumble drunkenly with each other in some hidden alcove, imagining what it would be like when every day was like this, when they were equals again.

In the Vulcanius household, there was no such merriment. No decorations or sharing of gifts. No music. It was possibly only out of propriety that Roose observed the holiday at all, or perhaps Ramsay pressured him into it. Ramsay seemed to be the most jovial one there, refilling his wine over and over until he was spilling it all over the table as he lifted his mug.

“A toast!” he declared. “To the King of Misrule!”

Only Damon joined in the toast.

Theon continued to eat, even when his stomach began to stretch painfully. He was near sick by the time the feast ended and the plates were being cleared away. He felt like an overstuffed sausage skin as Ramsay hauled him from his seat and steered him from the courtyard.

“Bid your king goodnight!” he called, and a small, unenthusiastic chorus called back, “Goodnight.”

Ramsay’s feet were unsteady as he guided them to his room, and Theon realized he was quite drunk. In fact, had he eaten anything at all, or simply drunk all evening? Theon couldn’t remember; he’d been too focused on his meal. Despite the pain in his stomach, and an inkling that he would regret his gluttony come morning, he felt a sense of warm satisfaction.

They left the tepid light and warmth of the hearth behind, and it almost felt like crossing into the depths of the underworld as they entered into Ramsay’s dark room. Ramsay had to lean against the doorframe to kick off his sandals before turning to Theon.

“Here we go,” he declared and swept Theon’s feet from under him. Theon grabbed hold of him tight for fear that Ramsay would drop him. And he nearly did, several times, before he managed to stagger to the bed and lay Theon out on the mattress. Then climb on top of him.

Theon’s hazy brain snapped back into wakefulness. Was this it? Was this the punishment? The thread holding Damocles’s sword about to break?

Ramsay hovered over him, staring down, studying him in the pale light coming in from the window. He smiled sloppily and picked at Theon’s toga but made no move to pull it off. “We can pretend, just for one night, huh, Reek, that _you_ were born into a noble family and _I_ was born a slave. How absurd would that be, if it were true?”

“Very absurd, _dominus_ ,” Theon answered. His heartbeat felt like a trapped bird in his throat.

“Do you love me, Reek?”

Theon was caught off-guard and didn’t answer as quickly as he should have. “Of course, _dominus_.”

Ramsay’s grin broadened. “Of course you do. I’ve given you everything, haven’t I?” He ran his hands through Theon’s hair. “Nobody else would want an ugly, crippled thing like you. But I do.” He lowered himself against Theon, buried his face in the crook of his neck. His lips were wet and cold against his skin. “I want you so badly, Reek. You have no idea.”

He gave a thrust of his hips, rutting into Theon. He wasn’t hard at all beneath his tunic, perhaps too drunk for it. It didn’t stop him trying a few more times, pumping against him until finally just collapsing. His weight pressed down on Theon, on his overly full stomach.

“You’ve never run to _me_ like that,” Ramsay sighed. “You’ve never…”

He trailed off, and Theon held his breath, waiting for Ramsay to finish. But when his breath became even and gasping snores echoed from his gaping mouth, Theon realized he’d fallen asleep.

Theon lay there for a moment, pinned under his master’s weight, staring up at the ceiling. Slowly, shifting an inch at a time, he managed to crawl out from under the sleeping man without waking him. And then for several more minutes, he sat with his legs dangling over the side of the bed.

Warm light spilled in from the hallway, where the sounds of the feast being cleared and the soft murmur of voices mingled. Cool light from the waxing three-quarter moon shone from outside. Theon stared at the floor. His mind felt sluggish. It must be the food.

A soft _plink_ caused him to look up.

He perched on his spot on the bed, standing perfectly still, and when the noise came again, he saw the rock bouncing off the wall outside. Curiously, he got to his feet and stumbled to the window.

“Theon,” a voice hissed.

Theon peered out into the alleyway separating the Vulcanius _domus_ from their neighbors’. A shadow swept past, like the frantic beating of a raven’s wings, and Theon pulled back in surprise, very nearly crying out. He managed not to, but a hand still slapped over his mouth. And he found Arya’s cold eyes staring back at him, not reflecting the moon’s light at all. She pressed a finger to her lips, ushering him to be silent, and when he nodded, she took her hand from his mouth.

“I spoke with Littlefinger,” Theon said quietly. He shot a quick look over his shoulder, but Ramsay was still snoring and soundly asleep. “He thinks you’re dead, or has been telling people as much. He won’t recognize you.”

“Good,” Arya said. “I contacted my people. They say to meet them on the last day of the Saturnalia, by Thoros’s blacksmith shop in the Via Lata District. Bring whoever you intend to take with you then.”

“Thank you,” he said, gripping her hand.

She pulled out of his grip. “A man named Beric will be waiting for you there until the sun sets. If you’re not there by then, he’ll leave without you.”

“That’s all we need.”

She turned to go.

“Will I see you again?” Theon asked.

She paused. “If all goes well, no.”

“Then do me a favor?”

She gave him a skeptical look.

“Make Littlefinger’s death painful.”

Arya’s grin glinted in the moonlight. “Of course.”


	28. xxvii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains (consensual) sexually explicit material.

“Didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” the guard smirked. “Or at all, really. You master sure was pissed when he came asking for you yesterday. Figured he’d beat you too black and blue to walk.”

Theon had been surprised himself when Ramsay had woken up, very hungover, and given him a jug of leftover wine to take to Jon. And an order to “make Wildling happy.” He seemed not to remember anything about last night.

The guard let him in, and Theon’s feet carried him to Jon’s cell almost of their own volition. Jon was sitting up on his bed, scratching at the wall with a bit of charcoal. He abandoned whatever he was working on as soon as he heard Theon approaching and ran up to the bars to greet him. The handler on duty ordered him to stand back as he unlocked the door, and Jon did so, back to the wall, jittering with a sort of nervous energy.

Theon had barely set foot inside before Jon grabbed him by the shoulders. “You’re well?” he asked. He’d been properly cleaned since yesterday, his curls combed, the wound on his arm bandaged. “Did he hurt you last night?”

Theon shook his head. “No, he didn’t punish me.”

“Did he _hurt_ you?” Jon demanded again.

“No, he didn’t.”

Jon released a breath.

“He sent you this.” Theon held out the wine.

Jon huffed, took the jug, and set it down roughly on the shelf of items he’s accumulated. Ramsay was far from his only admirer, and he received all their gifts with the same disdain. _They’ve got nothing I want_ , he’d told Theon more than once.

“How are _you_?” Theon asked.

“I am…better than you found me yesterday.”

Theon could see that. He could also see the deep hurt in Jon’s eyes, the guilt over killing a man he had no contention with, the shame of succumbing to his captors’ design for him. Theon’s heart ached for him.

“You helped,” Jon said.

Theon placed a hand on Jon’s bare chest, where the wound from his fight with the wolf had healed into a puckered scar.  “I’m afraid I’m not much.” Theon stared at his mangled fingers splayed out against Jon’s flesh. “But if you want to use me for comfort, I wouldn’t mind at all.”

“ _Use_ you?” Jon said. “What sort of man do you take me for?”

“I know I’m not much to look at.” Theon smiled ruefully. “I used to be handsome, you know.”

Jon grabbed his hand from his chest and held it in his own. “Looking at you is the highlight of my day. The only thing that would disappoint me would be if they put out your eyes and I would never get to see them again. But even then, they would need to put out _my_ eyes to keep me from looking at you.”

Theon looked up at him skeptically. But Jon’s face was so earnest.

“We’re leaving,” Theon said softly. “Five days from now.”

“Truly? She came through.”

“She did, just like you said she would.” Theon smiled before he could catch himself.

“No.” Jon gripped his chin, firmly but not harshly. “Please, smile.”

Theon let himself smile as Jon pushed him gently against the wall and claimed his mouth. Theon kissed back. It wasn’t like the sloppy, carefree kisses he’d shared with Robb on the rolling hills of the Sandalius _villa_. He didn’t dare open his mouth, lest he cut Jon with his broken teeth, or subject Jon to the perpetual rusted-copper taste of his empty sockets.

Jon didn’t seem to mind, though, content with moving their lips together, holding onto him, just as Theon held back. _This is a dream_ , Theon thought in a sudden panic. _This can’t be real. Any minute now I will wake up on the floor and Ramsay will…_

The thoughts faded as Jon began to kiss at his jaw, working his way down to the juncture of his throat. Then he didn’t really care if it was a dream; he endeavored just to enjoy it while it lasted.

Jon’s body was pressed against his, bare skin blazingly hot through the thin fabric of Theon’s tunic. He felt his body reacting to Jon, his presence, his mouth.

A tinge of panic lodged in his throat. How often had he hurriedly had to finish himself off upon waking up hard, just so Ramsay could not use it against him? He’d come to be quick and efficient about it, divorcing the act itself from any sort of pleasure. It felt almost wrong to be enjoying it now, like Ramsay would know. He _always_ knew.

Theon shook off those thoughts. He didn’t want to think about Ramsay. Not here, with Jon, when he felt safe and protected. Not when, for so long, intimacy had been tied to pain and fear.

Jon must have sensed something. “Are you alright?” he asked. “Am I…being too rough?”

Theon shook his head. “No, you’re fine. I just, uh…I…” His face felt like it was on fire as he looked down.

Jon followed his gaze. There was no way he could miss the tenting of Theon’s tunic. Jon’s face flushed pink. “Oh,” he said, almost uncomfortably. “Should I…? Do you want me to…?”

Theon bit his lip, feeling the broken teeth cut into flesh. His face flushed hotly.

“I…I’ve never…with a man,” Jon continued, “but I can…”

“You don’t need to.”

“I…I’d like to,” Jon said. “But only if you’d like to.”

Theon thought about it. How long it had been since he’d felt anything but revulsion at anyone—even himself—touching him like that. But Jon…Jon had never been anything but gentle with him.

He nodded.

Jon’s hand worked its way up under his tunic, slowly, prodding. His eyes never left Theon’s. Theon helped him undo the ties of his loincloth and guided his hand to the hardness between his legs, feeling his heart beat like a hammer on an anvil. Jon tentatively wrapped his hand around the shaft. “Is this…?”

Theon nodded for him to continue.

Jon’s hand was warm, rough and callused as he moved it up and down in slow, uncertain strokes. Theon groaned at the sensation. It was simultaneously too much and not enough. Molten heat roiled low in his stomach. He grabbed Jon’s shoulders. “F-faster.”

Jon obliged, and Theon keened as he began pumping, awkwardly at first but soon getting into a steady rhythm. Theon let his head fall back against the wall, feeling the rough concrete through his tunic. He remembered the feeling of smooth plaster, pressed up against a different wall in a different place, Robb’s practiced hand familiar with what he needed, blue eyes smiling… Waking up from a dream full of these memories to find Ramsay standing over him. His master grabbing his member punishingly tight, until Theon cried out.

_“It’s nice to see you wake up happy to see me, Reek, but I didn’t give you permission to be so wanton. I guess I’ll have to teach you to better control yourself, eh? No clothes while you do your chores this morning, and if I catch you touching yourself, I’ll cane you ‘til you bleed, eh?”_

“Ah, s-stop!” Theon cried.

Jon reared back as if he’d been burned. “What? What is it? Did I—?”

Theon shook his head. “No, I-I just—I need to take care of it myself.” He turned away from Jon, pressing himself against the wall.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, and that only made Theon want to sink into the ground even more.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Did I—was I too rough?”

Theon realized what he was asking. “No. It’s not—I’d never mistake _you_ for _him_.”

“But it is _him_ , isn’t it?”

“I just need to take care of it on my own,” Theon answered pitifully.

“I understand.” Jon took a step back, and suddenly, without his presence there, Theon felt very exposed. Vulnerable. “I’ll just…I won’t watch.”

Theon looked over his shoulder. “You can…if you want.”

Jon’s eyebrows shot up.

Theon wondered if that was weird. “I mean, you don’t have to stare at the wall or anything.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s not…I don’t mind you watching.” Theon felt his cheeks heat up. “I won’t take that long.”

Jon looked uncertain what to do and ended up sitting down on the concrete block that was his bed. “Alright,” he said. “Will you…will you face me, at least? I want to see how you do it…how you like it.” His face turned as red as wine. It was oddly adorable, this man who so effortlessly wielded a sword in combat made into a blushing maiden.

Theon slowly turned from the wall, felt a flush of joy at seeing the way Jon’s eyes took him in, as if he’d never seen another man’s dick before. His pupils widened; his nostrils flared. Theon couldn’t imagine what enjoyment Jon could possibly get out of his body, but perhaps he was starved for intimacy as well. Locked in this little cell, his only company besides Theon’s intermittent visits would be training with his fellow gladiators. Perhaps he needed to separate the human form from the violence he inflicted, and in turn had inflicted upon him, on a daily basis.

“You can…” Theon nodded to Jon. “If you want?”

Jon gave him a truly startled look.

“What? Men don’t rub one out in front of each other from time to time in Britannia?”

“Sometimes…with the other boys…” Jon said. “When we were training to be fighters.”

“See? It’ll be just like your training then.”

Jon looked around, as if someone might be spying on them from outside in the hall. Then, slowly, he reached for the ties for his own loincloth and let the bit of leather fall away. Theon had been his ass before—and it was a fine ass, brand mark or no—but seeing him completely bare for the first time was…something else.

He was as dark and curly below as he was on his head, the hair growing thick and untamed. His cock was larger than what was, strictly speaking, aesthetically pleasing. No sculptor would take it on, but that would be their loss, in Theon’s opinion, because despite its size, it was quite well-shaped, pleasing to the eye. And, Theon noticed, already more than halfway hard.

Theon felt his own dick harden as Jon took himself in hand, gripping the base and pumping up. His hips canted upwards, utterly wanton.

“Gods,” Theon said, “it’s unfair how beautiful you are.”

He didn’t think it was possible for Jon to turn any redder, but there it was. “You said I could…join in.”

“Of course,” Theon said, not sure what he was getting at.

“Then why am I only one touching myself?”

Theon chuckled and started moving his hand as well. He began to work himself in earnest. If he were being honest, it was a little intimidating with Jon’s intense stare on him. He felt…not like prey, but maybe like a beast’s mate, guarded with a fierce protectiveness. And even though Jon was undeniably beautiful, it was that _look_ that made his dick throb.

He found himself coming quickly, like an inexperience boy, all over his hand and across the floor of the cell. Jon’s breathing hitched, but he kept going for a few minutes after that, until he finally threw back his head and released with a kind of bestial growl. White stripes spurted into the straw of his bedding, until he was done and slumped back bonelessly against the wall.

He lay there, bare chest rising and falling, as Theon approached. Using the hem of his tunic, he began to wipe the seed from Jon’s thighs and stomach.

“You don’t—you’re getting your clothes dirty,” Jon protested.

“They can be laundered,” Theon said. In honesty, he’d rather be cleaning Jon with his tongue, but he kept that to himself. “You looked like you needed that as badly as I did.”

Jon stared up at him through long, dark lashes. “I haven’t…in a while…”

“Mmm,” Theon hummed in agreement.

“I like your kind of training,” he said. “Perhaps we can _train_ more…when we’re both free.”

Theon leaned down and captured Jon’s lips. Jon was so pliant beneath him, sensitive in the wake of his orgasm. “I would be happy to keep _training_ with you.” Though he didn’t think he’d be content with just watching. Not forever. He wanted Jon’s hands on him. He wanted to _want_ Jon’s hands on him. Feeling pleasure from his own hands was a good start, one he honestly never thought he’d have again. “How do you say ‘thank you’ in your language?”

“ _Diolch_ ,” Jon said.

“Dee-ulk.”

From Jon’s laugh, he’d butchered it pretty badly.

“Well, you’ll have to teach me before we get to your homeland,” Theon said.

Jon gripped his hand. “You really don’t mind coming with me?”

Theon shrugged. “There’s nothing left here for me. I’m looking forward to leaving it all behind.” He kissed Jon’s forehead. “If Ramsay doesn’t send me this week, then the next time you’ll see me will be five days from now. Be prepared to leave then.”

“I’m prepared to leave now.” Jon gestured to the cell. “There’s nothing here for me either.”

Theon laughed. “I hope I get to see you before then, but if not, remember our promise.”

Jon blinked. “Our promise?”

“We’re in this together. No one gets left alone again.”

Theon stood and straightened out his tunic and called for the guard. Jon looked rather like a dog watching its beloved master leave as he was let out of the cell, but Theon gave him a smile—even daring to reveal some of his teeth—and Jon managed to smile back.

His whole being was light and airy as he began down the hall, like Mercury’s winged boots were carrying him. His mind was wandering five days from now, and so he was taken by surprise when a shadow detached itself from the wall and blocked his path. He blinked against the dim light of the burning torches before recognizing the figure before him.

“Well, you’ve been quite busy, haven’t you, Reek?” Ramsay said with a vicious grin.

 

END PART III


	29. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much all the warnings apply to this chapter.

Ramsay threw Theon against the hard tile of his bedroom floor, having dragged him through the streets of Rome by his hair. Theon curled in on himself as Ramsay delivered a kick to his gut. “Who is _she_ , Reek?”

“Sh…she?”

“‘ _She came through.’ ‘Just like you said she would_.’” Ramsay spat the words, and Theon realized he’d been listening in on his entire meeting with Jon. From the beginning. He must have followed him from the _domus_. “You think I can’t do basic numbers? There’s some bitch who’s set up for you to escape. Who is she?”

Theon’s mind reeled. Thank the gods he hadn’t uttered Arya’s name for Ramsay to hear. “I meant…Fortuna,” he said.

“Fortuna?” Ramsay scoffed.

“D…during one of my trips to the Coliseum, there was an old man reading omens in pig’s entrails. He said liberation was to come on the final day of Saturnalia. I was only speaking of Fortuna’s omens.” He winced, hoping that sounded convincing enough.

Ramsay squatted down next to him. “You wound me, Reek. You were plotting to…escape?” he sounded almost genuinely incredulous. “Did that gladiator put you up to this?”

Theon shook his head fiercely. “No, it was my idea. All mine.”

Ramsay’s fist caught the side of his head, stunning him.

“All this time, I thought you let Wildling fuck you because I ordered it, because you were a good little whore. But now I find out that not only have you been enjoying it, you prefer _him_ to _me_.”

“N-no, of cour—”

Ramsay struck him again. His head bounced off the floor.

“ _I’d never mistake you for him,”_ Ramsay repeated in a nasally, singsong voice. He grabbed Theon’s hair, yanked his head up. “After _all_ I’ve done for you, Reek. All I’ve _given_ you. I _made_ you.” His eyes weren’t alight with their usual malicious glee. No, there was actual, _genuine_ hurt there. “And here you are, covered in another man’s cum.”

He grabbed the hem of Theon’s tunic and ripped. The fabric tore easily.

Theon felt his pulse humming under every inch of his skin as Ramsay pushed him roughly to the floor and pinned him down on his stomach. “You want to keep _training_? Fine. We’ll keep _training_ as long as it takes.”

 

***

 

When Theon regained consciousness, it was to someone prodding his shoulder. “Fuck, Rams, you really did a number on him.”

Theon groaned and tried to roll away from Damon’s touch.

“Your old man is going to be _pissed_.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Ramsay spat, and Theon couldn’t see where he was, just that he was somewhere out of sight. “I just need you to watch him while I go take care of something.”

Damon looked from Ramsay to Theon. “I don’t think he’s going anywhere, Rams. I mean, his leg looks pretty fucked up.”

“Just watch him, alright?” Ramsay snapped and stomped out of the room. Theon could hear— _feel_ —his footsteps echoing away down the hall.

Damon sighed and stood, and a moment later, Theon heard him settling his mass onto the bed. “You look like shit, you know.”

Theon didn’t answer. He thought his jaw might be broken. His ankle definitely was. And as he finally managed to roll over onto his side, he felt a stabbing pain in his ribs and tried to remember if he’d heard them snapping at all during…

It all blurred together in a horrible mesh of pain. Mostly what he remembered was Ramsay holding his face, forcing him to maintain eye contact as he took him, roughly, painfully. _“Maybe I should put out your pretty eyes, Reek, like your lover suggested.”_

Damon sat lounging quietly on the bed for a long while. Theon measured time by the idle kicking of his feet. It must have felt interminable to him as well, because after a good long while, he finally stood. “You’re not going anywhere, are you, Reek?” He kicked him, but with no real force behind it, as if he were afraid of actually hurting him. “If I go take a piss, you’re not going to try anything while I’m gone?”

Theon didn’t respond, and wouldn’t even if he’d been able to.

Damon snorted and stomped away. Theon summoned the strength to lift his head to watch him go. And as soon as he had vanished through the doorway, Theon began clawing his way across the floor.

It was laborious. There was no part of him that didn’t scream in protest. He could not even properly grit his teeth against the pain, and so the best he could do was steady his breathing and push through.

His arms trembled with the effort of dragging himself across the marble tiles. He felt like a snail, measuring his progress in inches by the trail of blood left in his wake. When he reached the bed, he grabbed hold of the nearest leg and began the new effort of lifting himself _up_. Inch by inch, up, until he was kneeling, half-leaning against the mattress. A moment, just a moment, to catch his breath. Then up on his feet.

Blood and seed dribbled down his leg. He felt like he’d been sanded raw, turned inside-out. It felt like his guts would spill out of him, like his backside had been made into a perpetually gaping wound. But the worst pain was his leg, his ankle turned at an odd angle. Touching it tentatively to the floor caused waves of blackness across his vision, and he had to lean against the bed once more until it passed, until his breathing leveled out.

Not for too long. He didn’t have forever to act.

He pulled off the bed sheet and wrapped it around himself to cover his nakedness. And then, using the stand by Ramsay’s bed as a support, he hobbled to the window. It was about waist-height, with no glass—an extravagance too far for Roose’s tastes, it seemed, but it worked well in Theon’s favor at the moment. He steadied himself against the sill, leaned out and looked both ways to the outside alley. The sun was beginning to set outside, and though he could hear voices of revelry and merriment for the second night of Saturnalia, there was nobody hanging about in the alleyway. He looked over his shoulder, but there was no sign of Damon either.

He flexed his remaining fingers, coiled his arms, took a deep breath through his nose, and hoisted himself up and over the sill. He landed shoulder-first on the street and had to throw a hand over his mouth to stifle the scream that wanted to force its way up through his throat. The world around him went white and then black, and when he came to, several minutes later, his entire body screamed at him to stay still and not move.

Well, he’d never been good at following orders.

Using the wall, he pushed himself back to his feet—or his one good foot, at least. Occasionally he needed to put weight on the bad one, and he could feel the broken bones grinding together. It wasn’t important. What was important was moving forward, making his way to the Coliseum, to Jon.

They’d escape tonight. The two of them. Hide in the city until the final day of the Saturnalia. They’d been caught quickly before, but maybe working together they could evade Ramsay, and the urban cohort, and the authorities from the Coliseum who would doubtless be turning over every stone in the city looking for Jon…

No, he couldn’t think like that. The streets were full of people, drunken revelers and public feasts. The noise and activity alone would give them an edge. For one, nobody even looked at him too much—a man dressed in a bed sheet—as he left the alleyway behind and emerged out onto the lamp-lit street. He supposed he might look like someone in costume, or a street beggar, or perhaps even one of the unshrouded priests of Saturn if nobody looked closely enough.

He found a carved pole leaning against some stacked boxes and hoped it wasn’t somebody’s Saturnalia present, because he requisitioned it for himself. Walking was easier with the new support; the pain came in ripples rather than waves.

Damon had to have realized he was gone by now. He would be coming after him, if he wasn’t already close of his tail. Theon knew he had no chance of outrunning him, not in his current state, so he kept his head down, tried to move in and among groups of people where he could. Every loud cry, every hint of commotion had him looking around in a panic.

He could just make out the Coliseum by now, its curved walls rising high above all the other buildings, and he picked up his pace, fighting against the pain it brought until tears stung his eyes. It was _there_. It was so _close_. Ramsay didn’t know about the drainage ditch. Nobody did. He could even hide there. Lying in shit held a certain appeal to it when the alternative was returning to Ramsay’s care…or never seeing Jon again.

Jon. It was what pulled him forward, against the pain, against his own body’s failing.

Jon, who was beautiful and strong and didn’t deserve this life at all. Sometimes, Theon could justify to himself why he’d ended up in his predicament: he’d been arrogant, he’d been proud, he’d thought his name would keep him safe. But he couldn’t justify why Jon was here, made to suffer for the amusement of the public. Jon was not a thing that should ever have been caged, and he _needed_ Theon, was relying on him. And if Theon failed him, he would end up like the Halfhand, fighting until he either lost or died of old age, rotting away in a cell. Or he simply gave up, his will broken, as Euron surely hoped.

No, no, no, that couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it.

He could make out the Coliseum’s archway entrance now, though the street seemed to stretch out as an interminable distance between him and Jon. He didn’t care. Didn’t have the time to care. He hobbled, using his makeshift cane to practically drag himself.

There, it was there, it was—

“There you are, you little shit!”

He didn’t look, even as he heard Damon charging towards him like an angry bull. Even though he knew he would not outrun him, _could not_ outrun him. He wouldn’t allow himself to give up without every last bit of fight he had left in him.

He made it perhaps five or six paces before Damon grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him off his feet. Theon swung with his cane and caught Damon in the stomach. Damon grunted and dropped him, and Theon landed on a heap on the ground. Pain stole his vision, and he blindly reached out and began dragging himself along the cobblestones. The nails on his remaining fingers broke and chipped, and he cried out with every lurch forward.

“Stop that,” Damon ordered. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Theon ignored him, until Damon reached down and picked him up and tossed him over his shoulder like he was a sack of flour. Theon kicked and punched and hissed like an angry cat, not caring that people had stopped to stare. That was all they did. Stared but did nothing else as he was carried back to his master.


	30. xxix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of the same from last chapter.

Ramsay returned later that night carrying a metal hoop and a length of chain, among other odds and ends. “He didn’t cause any trouble?” he asked idly.

“Didn’t move an inch,” Damon lied, like any man with a shred of self-preservation would.

Ramsay took one look at them, and Theon _knew_ he knew. He didn’t say anything, though, just tossed his load onto the floor. “Whatever. Hold him down while I put this on him.”

Theon made an effort to fight back as Damon pinned him to the floor and pulled his arms behind his back. First Ramsay bound his wrists together with a bit of leather, then instructed Damon to hold Theon’s head still while he opened the metal hoop and locked it into place around Theon’s neck.

The collar was tight, with small, biting teeth on the inside that pricked his flesh and pinched his throat closed. Theon writhed in panic, unable to breathe, unable to use his hands. Ramsay watched his panicked movements with heavily lidded eyes and let out a satisfied grunt as Theon finally collapsed to the floor, too exhausted to fight anymore.

“You’ll get used to it,” he declared, next handing Damon the heavy chain ring and a hammer. “Fix it to the wall, would you?” Damon grunted and took the hammer, and while he set about fixing the chain to the wall, Ramsay knelt down and grabbed hold of Theon’s chin. “This is your last chance to apologize.”

Theon stared up into his eyes. “I’m…sorry,” he managed to get out.

Ramsay smiled tightly. “I’m sorry…what?”

“I’m sorry, _dominus_.” If his jaw was no broken, it was at least dislocated, and it was difficult to talk.

“What are you sorry for, Reek?”

“I…I’m sorry for trying to escape. I’m sorry for enjoying my time with Jon—with Wildling,” he corrected himself. “I was only doing what you asked, I promise, _dominus_. He doesn’t mean anything to me.” His heart pounded. He hoped Jon would understand—it wasn’t giving in; it was appeasing Ramsay, telling him what he wanted to hear, whatever it took to get another chance at escape.

“Hmm,” Ramsay hummed, pinching Theon’s chin. “No, I don’t think you’re truly sorry at all, Reek. So the first thing we need to do is stop up that lying mouth of yours.” He pulled a strip of cloth out of the sleeve of his tunic.

Theon clamped his mouth closed, but Ramsay jammed a thumb roughly between his ribs, and when Theon gasped in pain, Ramsay forced the gag between his teeth and tied it tight enough to make his jaw ache. Theon stared up blearily at Ramsay through a teary haze. Ramsay looked down with a satisfied smirk.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. Which reminds me.” He snapped his fingers. “Next we need to stop your wandering eyes, eh?” And he produced another bit of cloth.

_At least he’s not putting my eyes out_ , Theon thought desperately, but his attempts to comfort himself all but vanished as the heavy cloth went over his eyes, turning the world into darkness. He couldn’t see, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move his hands, could barely breathe through the collar and the gag. All he could do was lie there, listening to Damon hammering the chain into the wall, waiting for whatever Ramsay had next.

When the hammering stopped, Ramsay grabbed him by chain and dragged him across the floor. Theon cried out through the gag, largely in surprise, though Ramsay was certainly taking no care with his injuries. His head bounced off the tile as Ramsay loosened his grip on the chain. “Get it in good enough?”

“It’ll hold him for sure,” Damon said.

Theon heard the clank of metal on metal, the chain being looped around the ring and doubled back to his collar once again. Just enough slack that he could lie right where he was, unmoving, with his cheek pressed against the cold floor.

Then he heard their footsteps retreating. They left him like that. On the ground. Naked and bound.

 Soon, his gag was soaked with drool and his blindfold soaked with tears.

 

***

 

He had no sense of time except the ebb and flow pain. Minutes and hours were interchangeable. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and he only knew that because he dreamed.

He dreamed of Robb and his red hair in the sunlight, and everything felt warm. He dreamed of warm blood spilling over his arms and the smiling light leaving blue eyes.

He dreamed of Jon, the smell and feel of him, the grit of his body. He dreamed of the fight leaving grey eyes as Euron plunged his sword deep while all of Rome cheered.

He dreamed of Arya, who had nothing behind her eyes. “Maybe it would be easier to meet them again on the other side,” she said.

“No,” he tried to say, but when it came out muffled, he shook his head instead. Robb had told him…not yet…

Eventually Ramsay’s footsteps returned, but he didn’t say anything. Not a word directed at the man lying on the floor. The bed creaked, and soon the only sound was Ramsay’s snoring. Theon dreamed more—about Sansa and Jeyne and Littlefinger and Euron—and when the bed creaked again and Ramsay let out a long yawn, he figured dawn had come.

And that was how he measured time.

Ramsay came and went, never speaking to him, three times. Three days.

On the second day, his body began to burn with an unbearable heat. It felt like he had an iron forge working under his skin. Sweat pooled under his bindings and rubbed him raw. He began to dream even when he was awake. He dreamed he heard Jon screaming his name while Euron violated him. He dreamed Jeyne stood staring down at him, tears trailing through her painted face. She wanted to know why Theon had forgotten her.

He couldn’t answer through the gag. He couldn’t tell her he hadn’t forgotten about her. He hadn’t forgotten about either of them.

On the third day, he regained a measure of consciousness, only to find himself lying in a puddle of his own sweat, drool, and filth. He heard Ramsay’s footsteps again and flinched when he felt a hand caressing his face. “Not a word now, Reek. All you need to do is open your mouth.”

He loosened the gag and pulled it down over Theon’s chin. Theon swallowed the saliva that had accumulated in the back of his throat and then obediently opened his mouth, terrified of what Ramsay would put in there. It turned out to be the lip of a bowl, and a stream of thin broth flowed in. Theon gulped greedily until Ramsay took it away.

“Better?”

Theon nodded.

“Do I need to put the gag back in?”

Theon shook his head.

“We’ll see.” A rough hand grabbed his chin. “From now on, I only want you to speak truthfully, understand?”

Theon nodded.

“What’s your name?”

“Reek.”

“None of that, now.” The grip tightened. “You just agreed to tell the truth.”

“Theon,” he answered. “Gratius Marcus Quartinius Theon.”

“That’s what you _think_ your name is, but we’ll work on that. I’ll teach you your real name, so that when you say it, it won’t be a lie anymore. Now…are you sorry?”

Theon hesitated. He wasn’t, and Ramsay knew it. “No.”

“Then at least you’re telling the truth now.” Ramsay released his hold and stood. “You will be sorry in time, though. I’ll _teach_ you to be sorry.”

 

***

 

On the fourth day, Ramsay cleaned the filth from him, only because Roose complained about the smell emanating from his room. He cradled Theon’s head in his lap as he ran a wet cloth over his body, a mockery of the very thing Theon had often done for Jon. Theon could not see him through the blindfold, could not read his expression or judge where his hand would go next. And Ramsay was not gentle, scrubbing him down roughly over his ribs, his thighs, between his legs, where he was still very much raw and open.

As a last measure of cruelty, he gave a tug to Theon’s broken ankle that had him screaming and writhing against his bonds. “Don’t want that healing up too well.” He meant to keep him hobbled.

Ramsay gave him some water—thankfully clean, and not the dirt water he’d used to bathe him—and then stood and left Theon to his pain and dreams.

He dreamed Reek was sitting beside him, carding bony hands through his hair. It was one of those waking dreams. “Tonight is the last night of Saturnalia,” he said.

“I know,” Theon replied. His voice sounded weak and broken to his own ears.

“Jon is expecting you.”

“I know.”

“You won’t be able to make it.”

“I know.”

“There’s only two ways out, you know. You can give up, catch your ferry ride across the great river to join your beloved Robb, or…”

“Or?”

“Or you can let me in.”

“N-no,” Theon said.

“The only way to convince Ramsay you are Reek is to let me in.”

“I can’t!” Theon sobbed. “Jon…Jon still needs me.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to ask yourself who Jon needs more right now: Theon or Reek.”

When Ramsay came to bed that night, Theon knew sundown had come and gone. Saturnalia had passed, and with it, his hopes of escape.

 

***

 

It was the seventh day since he’d been bound and chained to the wall in Ramsay’s room.

“Alright.”

“Alright?” Reek said.

“Wear me.”

Reek didn’t ask again. He crawled in through Theon’s wounds and made himself at home under his skin and between his bones.


	31. xxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I've been remiss in thanking [theonsfavouritetoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonsfavouritetoy/pseuds/theonsfavouritetoy) for all her help, letting me bounce ideas off of her and tossing her own back at me. In particular she came up with a vital plot point in this chapter.
> 
> Purpure = a shade of purple fabric reserved exclusively for the emperor and empress.
> 
> Also, continuing from the last two chapters, you can expect more of the same in this one.

Ramsay came in to feed him broth—the third meal he’d had since he’d been chained.

“Thank you, _dominus_ ,” Reek said pitifully and nuzzled into Ramsay’s hand as he took the bowl away.

“What’s your name?” Ramsay asked, as he had every day since he’d taken the gag out.

“Reek.”

Ramsay didn’t respond. A moment later, Reek felt a pressure at his temple and then the blindfold was being pulled down. Light flooded painfully into his eyes and he blinked against the harshness of it. Ramsay brought their faces close together, so they were almost nose-to-nose. After living in his own filth for so many days, his master’s stale breath was like fresh air. Cold eyes scrutinized him, studied him for any hint of lie.

“And are you sorry?”

“I’m so sorry, _dominus_. I know I hurt you terribly. I’m weak. I did not appreciate your kindness.”

Ramsay studied him again for a long moment.

“Do you think you deserve forgiveness?”

Reek lowered his eyes. “No, _dominus_.”

“Good.” Ramsay slipped the blindfold back up and left Reek to lie on the floor.

 

***

 

Reek didn’t even lift his head when Ramsay returned sometime later and settled himself on the bed.

“Reek.”

Reek did lift his head then, surprised his master was speaking to him.

“Do you hate me?”

Reek wasn’t sure. Ramsay was cruel and unknowable and all powerful, but so were the gods. He’d cursed Fortuna sometimes, but he’d never hated her. “I’m scared of you,” he answered at last, which seemed to satisfy Ramsay.

Or not, because he didn’t speak again for a long time.

“Then why did you choose _him_ over me?”

“Because I was stupid.”

Ramsay’s snorted laugh filled the air. “That goes without saying. But why _him_? Because he’s pretty?”

“No,” Reek answered honestly. Jon—Wildling, _dominus_ would want him to call him Wildling—was pretty, and may well have been one of the reasons he’d _first_ looked at him, but it wasn’t the thing that had drawn him back, time and again.

“Then why? You must have known he can’t give you anything. He’s got a glamorous position, but he’s still just a slave.”

Reek looked deep inside himself for an answer that would satisfy Ramsay. “Because he doesn’t scare me. He doesn’t…hurt me.”

He heard Ramsay shift on the bed, the frame creaking as he swung his legs over the edge. “I hurt you because you wouldn’t learn otherwise.”

“I know,” Reek answered. “I know that now.”

The soft thud of bare feet on tile brought his master’s looming presence closer. Reek couldn’t see but could feel his shadow falling over him, and curled in on himself. “I also hurt you because I like it.”

“I know that too,” Reek admitted.

He flinched when a hand landed on his face. But there was no force to it, no pain. It just brushed the scruff on his cheek before sliding up and hooking a finger under his blindfold. Reek blinked, but the light was less harsh this time in the early evening darkness. He could barely make out Ramsay’s face, aside from his grin.

“You’re pretty when you’re hurt,” he said. “Prettier than Wildling. You were made to be hurt, and I was made to hurt you.”

Reek looked up at him. “I know,” he murmured.

Ramsay unhooked the chain from the wall and let it clatter to the floor. Then he bent and scooped Reek into his arms. Reek squawked like a bird in alarm. He felt the rumbling of laughter in Ramsay’s chest throughout his entire body as his master carried him to the bed like a new bride. Albeit a bride who’d had her arms tied behind her back.

He laid Reek out with surprising gentleness then climbed in after him and curled up next to him. Pulled Reek’s meager body against his. His large hands ran over Reek’s hips, his chest, and he kissed the back of his neck. But no more than that.

“My sweet Reek.”

Reek stared at the pale expanse of Ramsay’s chest.

“I love you more than he ever will.”

Reek didn’t know what to say to that and was silent for a long time. “Thank you,” he said at last. “For giving me another chance. I know I don’t deserve it.”

“No, you don’t,” Ramsay agreed.

He fell asleep with one arm wrapped around Reek and the other gripping the chain.

 _He’s not holding it too tight_ , Theon said. _I can try to escape_.

 _No_ , Reek said back. _You can’t_.

 

***

 

For the next few days, Reek lay on Ramsay’s bed, which was a great deal better than lying on the floor. The chain was wrapped around one of the bed’s legs and given enough slack that he could at least stand to relieve himself in a pot Ramsay had left specifically for this purpose. His wrists remained bound behind his back, but he was no longer blindfolded or gagged and could read the passage of time by the light streaming in through the window.

Ramsay generously fed him broth twice a day and, after he’d snapped his dislocated jaw back into his socket, bits of stale bread that hurt his teeth to chew but for which he was genuinely grateful anyway. At night Ramsay held him close and didn’t hurt him beyond pulling on his hair and pressing down on a bruise.

Three days passed like that.

On the fourth day, when Ramsay allowed Reek to lick the grease of his last meal from his fingers, Reek took it gratefully, lapping hungrily at the lingering taste of chicken. And then wrapping his tongue around Ramsay’s fingers and sucking suggestively, gauging his reaction with demure eyes.

Ramsay grinned. “All you had to do was ask.” And he pulled his fingers out of Reek’s mouth and pressed down on his head.

Reek sucked his master’s cock just the way he liked it, sloppy and deep and with no hint of teeth at all. When Ramsay unloaded down his throat, he swallowed everything, the way he’d been taught. Ramsay dragged him back up by his hair and held him so they were eye-to-eye.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” he said, “but I hope you realize I’m not going to stop hurting you just because you’re really fucking good with your mouth.”

“No, _dominus_ , I know,” Reek replied with complete honesty. “I deserve to be hurt.”

Ramsay grinned and reached behind Reek’s back. Reek tensed, but a moment later, he felt the leather bonds around his wrists loosen and his arms became light as feathers as he lifted them freely for the first time in weeks. “Good.”

 

***

 

Reek only saw Damon once, when he came to the room to take a small box from Ramsay.

“They didn’t give you any trouble last time?” Ramsay asked as the box exchanged hands.

“They had some questions, but no, no trouble,” Damon answered.

“Good.”

Damon took the box and left without really looking at Reek at all. Reek wondered if he’d been punished for allowing him to escape before.

He didn’t ask about the exchange, but Ramsay explained anyway as he kicked off his sandals and climbed onto the bed. “I’ve been sending Damon to deliver Wildling’s gifts, since you can’t anymore.” And he tugged on Reek’s broken ankle.

Only after the pain receded did Reek register his words.

Ramsay smirked as he crawled on top of him. “Of course I’m still giving Wildling gifts. I wouldn’t want him to think _I’ve_ abandoned him too.”

Too? Did Jon think he’d been abandoned? No, Jon would know better. He’d know the only reason Theon hadn’t come for him was because he’d been unable to. Of course, these weren’t the sorts of thoughts Reek was supposed to have, so he pushed them from his mind as Ramsay bent his bony knees against his chest and guided his cock between his legs.

Jon was something that belonged to Theon, and he was Reek.

 

***

 

A few days later, Ramsay decided Reek no longer needed the chain. Reek had almost forgotten how to breathe deeply, and as Ramsay unclasped the metal collar, the sense of air filling lungs was almost as satisfying as a meal. He ran his hand over his throat and felt the sores there from the spikes digging into his flesh for over two weeks now.

“I’m trusting you now, Reek,” Ramsay said, gathering up the chain links. “I’m going to go put these away. I’ll be gone only a few minutes, but when I get back, I expect you won’t have moved from this spot.”

“Yes, _dominus_ ,” Reek answered.

Ramsay left with the metal chains clanking in his arms. Reek sat on the bed and looked out the window. It was well into winter now, and the sky was overcast. He remembered a conversation Theon had had with Jon, about how snow covered his homeland in the winter and it was beautiful.

 _I can try to escape_ , Theon said.

 _No_ , Reek replied. _You can’t_.

 

***

 

One  night, without preamble, Ramsay announced he would allow Reek to attend dinner with him. It was the first time he had left Ramsay’s room in three weeks. His legs were unsteady, not only from his broken ankle but from the wasted flesh that clung hungrily to his bones, as he limped to the _triclinium_ , where Roose eyed him with obvious, if subdued, distaste.

“Must you bring that creature to dinner?” Roose asked.

Ramsay snorted. “I’ve bathed him. What more do you want from me?”

Roose glowered at Reek, who lowered his eyes. Because Reek could not properly stand, he knelt at Ramsay’s feet like a dog.

“I heard something funny today,” Ramsay said, changing the subject as he settled onto his own couch. “You remember Littlefinger?”

Reek’s ears pricked up.

“Baelius Petyr? Yes.”

“Turns out he’s a traitor.”

Roose actually lifted his head at that. “Is he now?”

“Heard talk in the square that he was caught with several yards of purpure in a chest he keeps hidden in his office.”

“He is a friend of the emperor. Perhaps it was meant as a gift.”

“For his sake I should hope not,” Ramsay said giddily. “Supposedly it was poisoned.”

“Supposedly?” Roose asked.

Ramsay shrugged. “I’m just repeating what I heard said. There’s got to be some truth to it, because when I walked by his whorehouse earlier, it was closed and empty.”

“Do you walk by his whorehouse often, then?”

Ramsay ignored that. “Seems the building will be requiring a new proprietor. I was thinking…you keep pushing me to ‘do something with me life.’”

“I thought you might have loftier goals than becoming a whoremonger,” Roose replied levelly.

“Well, yeah, but you need money to go into politics, and Littlefinger seemed to be doing well for himself on that account.”

Roose hummed noncommittally.

“At least it would get me out of the house, doing things,” Ramsay continued, drumming his fingers on the table. “I _was_ planning on going to the next gladiator matches, but…I don’t know…” He sighed. “One of my favorite fighters got killed during a training session.”

Reek’s pulse picked up.

“Awfully negligent of the handlers,” Roose commented.

“He tried to escape. Went into a berserker rage.” Ramsay waved his hands about in animated excitement. “You ever hear about that—the berserkers up north? They go nuts in the heat of battle. Don’t feel pain or anything. So the handlers had to cut him down. It was the only way.” He paused long enough to take a pull from his cup of wine. “Shame. Like I said, Wildling was one of my favorites.”

Reek lurched forward.

“Oh, did you not know, Reek?” Ramsay nudged him with his foot. “Wildling’s dead. Took a sword right through one pretty eye and out the back of his head.” He sloshed his wine around. “Would have loved to have seen it.”

Reek didn’t respond.

Ramsay prodded him harder. “Didn’t you hear me? Your lover boy’s dead. How does that make you feel?”

“It doesn’t make me feel anything,” Reek replied.

Ramsay settled back in his reclining couch with a huff. “Make yourself useful and get me more wine.”

“Yes, _dominus_.”

Reek struggled to his feet and limped his way around the table to fetch the jug of wine. His hands and arms trembled terribly as he carried it back to his master.

“Your abuse of that creature is growing intolerable,” Roose said.

“I haven’t caused any trouble for you, have I?” Ramsay snapped back and held out his cup for Reek to refill. “And in fact, I’d say I have Reek better trained than ev—”

He shrieked as the jug slipped from Reek’s hands and spilled its contents all up and down the front of his tunic before shattering into jagged little pieces on the ground. In a flash, he was on his feet and Reek was cowering back from him.

“What the fuck, Reek!?”

“S-sorry, _dominus_ ,” Reek squeaked. “I’ll clean it up right away.” He fell to his knees in the puddle of wine and shattered clay. With trembling hands, he began picking out the larger pieces.

Ramsay grabbed his wrist, still raw from being bound, and yanked him to his feet. “Stop that. You’ll only make it worse.” He gave Reek a rough shove. “You’ve already ruined my meal. Go wait in my room until I decide how to punish you.”

“Yes, _dominus_ ,” Reek said meekly and scuttled off.

He dutifully sat on the floor by Ramsay’s bed until his master arrived a few moments later, trailing dripping wine behind him. He stopped dead in the center of the room and lifted his arms expectantly. “Hurry up, Reek, I’m soaked through.”

Reek obediently jumped to his feet and began pulling his master’s sodden tunic off. “I’m sorry, _dominus_ , so sorry. My hands, they’re—”

“Silence, Reek. I didn’t give you permission to speak.”

Reek closed his mouth. He bundled up the dirty tunic in his arms and placed it out of the way for laundering…if it could be salvaged. He fetched a clean cloth from the bedside stand and dipped it in the bowl of water Ramsay kept for cleaning up. He began to clean the sticky wine from his master’s body by running the rag across his chest, but Ramsay grabbed his wrist again to still his movements. Reek looked up in confusion.

“I’m not going to punish you too harshly. Although I find it aggravating that you can’t follow a simple direction, your clumsiness is a bit endearing to me. And…accidents happen, of course.”

“Yes, _dominus_. It was an accident. I’m sorry.”

Ramsay tightened his grip on his wrist until Reek stopped rambling.

“On the other hand, you _did_ embarrass me if front of my father.” He bent Reek’s wrist until he was forced to drop the cloth. It landed with a wet plop at his feet. “And just as I was singing your praises.” Ramsay reeled him in, hand reaching for the ratty tunic he’d dressed him in for dinner. “I’ve decided. I’m going to fuck you with one of the pieces of that jug you broke. A nice, sharp one.”

Reek recoiled, flailed about with his free hand.

“Now, now,” Ramsay sneered, drawing Reek inexorably towards him, “don’t struggle. You said yourself you deserve to be hurt. I’m just giving you what you de—”

His sentence cut off with a startled gasp. His eyes widened. He released Reek and took a step back. Clutched at his side. His hands came away soaked in blood from where Reek had plunged the nice, sharp piece of broken jug between his ribs.

For a minute nothing happened. Ramsay just stood there, looking shocked. Then his mouth began to work. Blood dribbled over his lips, and Reek supposed he’d struck pretty deeply into his lung. Perhaps even his heart, if Ramsay even had one.

“Reek,” he gasped.

“Not Reek,” Theon said. “ _Theon_. Gratius. Marcus. Quartinius. _Theon_.”

Ramsay collapsed to his knees, still clutching at his side as blood poured through his wound, thicker and darker than any wine.

“And _his_ name isn’t Wildling,” Theon continued. “It’s Jon. And he’s not dead. He’s waiting for me.” Even Reek hadn’t believed that lie.

Ramsay tried to speak, but only a wet gurgle escaped. He fell the rest of the way to the floor, and Theon stood over him, watching until the light went out of his eyes, just to be sure. It took a long time. Then, clutching his makeshift dagger, he sat on the floor next to the body and waited.


	32. xxxi

The sun began to rise, casting a long rectangle of light through the window. Theon expected Damon to come first, wondering why Ramsay had not yet awoken. He clutched at his dagger until it cut into his flesh and his own blood mingled with Ramsay’s.

Damon wasn’t the first to come, though. It was Roose, appearing at the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back as if he’d come in expecting to chide Ramsay. Even if he’d been close enough to stab, it looked as though he was incapable of being taken by surprise, because he regarded Ramsay’s body, then Theon, then the bloody dagger with only an arched eyebrow.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to kill him.”

“Excuse me?” Theon demanded.

“To be honest, I hoped it would happen much sooner.”

“You…hoped?”

“Ramsay has been a stain on my house since his brother Domeric brought him home.” He strode noiselessly into the room, like a ghost. “I suppose you know about that, though. His mother was a slave on my father’s estate, a rash decision on my part that I regretted almost instantly. I could very well blame her for his…temperament, but I knew, as soon as I saw the boy, looking back at me with _my_ eyes, that the gods had sent him as a curse upon me. It was by Domeric’s wish alone that I had the records forged, that Ramsay became a trueborn citizen and his past as a slave erased in the eyes of men—but not the gods.”

There was no emotion in his voice. Just a sense of weariness that Theon understood all too well himself.

“Every time I brought a new plaything home for Ramsay, I hoped they would be the one to end him. I had long since given up on your chances, but you’ve managed to surprise me. So, I must thank you for ridding me of this curse. My hands are dirty—covered in more blood than you could imagine—but at least they are clean of my own blood.”

Theon stared down at the dagger and the four-fingered hand that clutched it. “Is that why you chose me that day?”

“I chose you because your arrogance would be an amusing challenge for Ramsay, to keep him busy. I’ll admit I did not expect you to last as long as you did. You bent when you could have easily broken.”

“Bent…” Theon repeated, numbly taking in the measure of his body, the ways it had been forever bent out of shape from Ramsay’s care. But in the end he was alive and Ramsay was a cooling corpse on the floor. Using the bed, he pulled himself up to leaning on his good foot. “I need to get to Jon. Can you promise no one will come after me?”

“Oh.” Roose cocked his head slightly. “Were you under the impression that I was just going to let you stroll out of here?”

He unclasped his hands to reveal a proper dagger, with a gilded hilt and a blade that glinted in the early morning sun.

Theon stared a moment, uncomprehending. But when he realized what Roose intended to do, he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but boiling anger. “You let your son _torture_ me for _months_ and actively sabotaged my escape attempts to save your own skin.” He used his own pathetic dagger to point at Ramsay’s body. “I did you a favor by killing him, and I’m willing to never breathe a word of what you allowed him to do to me under your roof if you let me pass and promise no one will come after me.”

“Quite bold of you, to go from a cur cowering at my son’s feet to threatening a legate.”

“Really? I think I’m being rather generous, considering I did plan on killing you too for your role in the murder of the Sandalii.”

Roose pressed his lips together. “That was unfortunate, but I had my orders.”

“You _knew_ they were innocent!”

“I’ve killed many innocent people, both in service to the Empire and for my own benefit as well,” Roose said impassively.

Theon held out his weapon. “And _I_ killed Ramsay. I’ll kill you too if you get in my way.”

Roose slid the tip of his dagger along his finger, as if judging its sharpness. “Come now, boy. We both know you were only able to kill Ramsay because you managed to take him by surprise. You can barely stand, let alone move fast enough to knick me with that little knife of yours.” He strode forward, coolly and calmly. “I’ve fought in _wars_. Actual battles. Perhaps I am not the young man I once was, but I assure you, I am still skilled enough that you will pose no threat to me. I’ve cut down unarmed women who posed more of a threat than you.”

Theon knew it was the truth, but the only alternative was allowing Roose to kill him. And that wasn’t an option. He’d come too far, endured too much. And Jon was waiting for him. He gritted his broken teeth and gripped his knife tighter, coiling what strength he could into his arms for a strike.

Roose smirked. Actually smirked. He had the same smirk as Ramsay, twisted slightly higher at the right corner of his mouth than his left. “Facing death with dignity is an honorable pursuit, but I’ve seen many men resolved to such a fate instead die crying out for their mothers. It’s quite different in the moment, you know, with your life blood ebbing away, when everything within you is fighting against the end of it.” His eyes flicked to his dagger. “But…you’ve surprised me before. Perhaps you will be able to—”

“Sir!” A guard appeared at the door, heavily out of the breath.

Without moving, Roose’s eyes slid to him. “I’m rather busy at the moment, Alyn.”

“Yes, sir, I can see, but—at the door—it’s the Guard, sir!”

“The Guard?”

“The Praetorian Guard, sir. They say…they say they’ve got a warrant for your arrest, sir.”

Roose frowned. “What for?”

“For…for conspiracy, sir.”

“What? I never—”

But at that moment, several armed men dressed in legion armor pushed the hapless guard out of the way and rushed into the room, aiming their spear-points as Roose. “Drop the weapon!” one of them ordered, and Theon thought his voice sounded a bit familiar.

Roose obediently and without missing a beat dropped the dagger and held up his hands. “Captain Leonius. What a pleasure to see you again.”

The captain scoffed. “As much as I’d love to say I wish it were under better circumstances, the truth is, I’ve been looking forward to the day I’d get to put your slimy ass in shackles.”

“Under what charges?”

“You’re denying you conspired with Baelius to frame Sandalius Eduardus for treason?”

“Categorically.”

“Then I suppose you’ll get your chance to plead your case before the senate.” Captain Leonius—Jaime, Theon remembered, the man who had protected Sansa that day at the _villa_ —put his hand on the sword sheathed at his side. “Unless you try to resist, of course.”

“Of course.” Roose held out his hands and allowed one of the other guards to cuff him in irons. “I don’t know where you’ve gotten your information from, Captain, but I’m sure you’ve run it by your _father_.” He put a strange emphasis on that last word.

Jaime sneered. “My information is good. And it also has some interesting things to say about my father as well.”

As they led Roose, unresisting, from the room, Jaime turned to Theon. “Are you Theon?”

Theon held his knife close to his chest.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jaime said, quickly taking his hand off the hilt of his sword. “Do you know a slave girl named Jeyne?”

“Jeyne?” Theon asked. “Where is she? Is she well?”

“She’s currently under the care of a man named Aurelius. She said we would find you here. I’m to take you to Aurelius.” He looked Theon up and down with vaguely disguised disgust. “After your wounds have been treated, of course. Gods, man, did Roose do that to you?”

Theon let the dagger fall from nerveless hands. He stumbled forward. His legs gave out under him. Luckily, Jaime was quick and caught him. His grip was painful around Theon’s ribs, but he didn’t care. Didn’t care about the tears running down his face, or the undignified sobs that wracked his chest like the hiccups.

“There, there,” Jaime said awkwardly. “You’re safe. I’m charged with protecting you.” The man was clearly no more used to giving comfort than Theon was, but in that moment, he was terribly comforting. “Everything’s going to be alright, you hear?”


	33. xxxii

He must have passed out while Captain Leonius was carrying him, because the next thing he was aware of was rising out of the darkness all around him and floating amid a sea of shifting colors, coalescing but never taking form.

Voices spoke to him from somewhere far away, like shades calling to him from the other side of the great river. Sometimes he could hear them quite clearly, but mostly they were muffled and indistinct. He thought he felt a hand gripping his own, and a face hovering over his.

“Theon,” a voice said, and it almost sounded familiar, but raspier than he could place. “It’s me. It’s Jeyne.”

“Jeyne?” he croaked. His voice sounded like it was coming from several leagues away. Or from below. He squeezed the hand back. It felt solid enough, but so did Robb when he came to him in his dreams. “I’m sorry I didn’t come for you, Jeyne. I didn’t forget about you, I promise.”

“I know.” He still couldn’t see her face. The world was fuzzy. Not just his vision, but _everything_ around him was fuzzy. “I know you didn’t. I didn’t forget about you either.”

Her hazy features began to fade. Theon struggled against the darkness, but he wasn’t strong enough and it sucked him under again.

He drifted in the dark for a time, unaware of anything happening around him. He felt weightless, free. Maybe the priests were wrong. Maybe it wasn’t a great river you crossed on your path to the afterlife. Maybe it was just an ocean and there _was_ no other side. Just a weightless, painless _almost_ -existence.

“No, you’re not dead,” a masculine voice said, and warm hands cupped his face. “But you’re not among the living right now, where you need to be.” Warm lips brushed his. “I told you before, there’s no hurry to join me here. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Theon’s eyes popped open. At first there was only white, but as he blinked, he realized he was staring at a plastered ceiling. He was lying on a bed, his body soaked with stale sweat. As he tried to sit up, he realized his couldn’t move his ankle; it had been bound. Panic rose up in his throat.

He bolted upright and nearly screamed—but somehow managed only to gasp—to see Arya standing at the foot of the bed, staring at him with eyes that seemed even deader in the light of day. “How are you feeling?”

Theon had no idea how to go about answering that.

“Are you in pain?” Arya said, coming around the side of the bed. She was dressed in the same toga she’d worn that night at Pluto’s temple, but in the daylight he could see that it was an exceptionally dark red. She held a cup in her hands and offered it to him. “The surgeon said that if you were in pain, you were to take this.”

Theon eyed the cup mistrustfully.

Arya rolled her eyes. “It’s poppy milk, not poison. But if you don’t want it—” She made to toss it out the window.

“No, wait.” Theon held out his hands. They trembled as Arya handed him the cup, and he sat staring into its cloudy contents for a moment. “I’m not sure…I want my brain to be foggy right now,” he admitted, thinking of the dark ocean.

“The surgeon says a body in pain will heal slower.” Arya folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the wall, looking out through the window. From the rooftops Theon could just manage to make out, they appeared to be on a second story, perhaps even third. Somewhere not the Vulcanius _domus_ , then, certainly. “But _I’ve_ learned that sometimes a body in pain will push you to do remarkable things.”

Theon contemplated that. He was in pain, terrible pain, but it seemed almost…secondary somehow. He stared down at his mangled hands holding the cup. Mangled hands that had nonetheless managed to kill Ramsay only a few hours ago. A few hours…how much time had passed? It had been just after dawn when the Guard had come, and judging from the sky he could see through the window, it was perhaps early afternoon, so he could not have been out for too long.

“I need to get to Jon,” he said.

“The man you intended to escape with?” Arya asked without turning.

“Still intend.”

“You’re a free man now, you realize?”

He looked up sharply.

“I had Captain Leonius request your records. It seems your _nexus_ contract expired some months ago, meaning Vulcanius Roose has been keeping you unlawfully as a captive. Another crime he’ll have to answer for before the Senate.”

Theon’s mind reeled. Sometime after he’d lost this third finger, he’d come to believe he would never be a free man again, that he would die a slave.

Arya turned around, leaning her elbows against the windowsill. “We’ll deal with the formalities later. My point is that you’re free to go where you want and I can’t and won’t stop you. Though you must ask yourself if this Jon is best-served by you refusing your medicine.”

“I need to see him right away. He needs to know I’m alive and that I didn’t abandon him.”

Arya shrugged, as if it were all the same to her. “I can have Gendry escort you.”

“You don’t need to do that. If you give me a cane or a crutch or something—”

“You’ll want Gendry’s help if you intend to get to the match before your friend fights.”

Theon blinked, unsure he’d heard her correctly. “What?”

“He’s the one they call Wildling, right? The gladiator? Jeyne told me.”

“But he…how long have I been out?”

“Two days,” Arya answered. “They’ve been advertising it in the square all week: Wildling against Crow’s Eye.”

Crow’s Eye.

Euron.

Just like that, the remaining fog receded from Theon’s brain. He threw back the sheets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I have to get there.”

In a flash, Arya was by his side, pressing down on his shoulder with remarkable strength. “Don’t try to stand on your own.”

“You don’t understand. Jon…Euron…I _have_ to get there before the match starts.”

“Then let me fetch Gendry,” Arya insisted. “He’ll get you there faster than any crutch could.”

Images of his hobbling escape attempt from Ramsay came to his mind, and he had to admit she was right. It didn’t keep a thousand horrid thoughts from also coming to his mind as she went to fetch Gendry. Jon could take on Euron, couldn’t he? Certainly, if anyone could defeat his uncle, it would be Jon. But what if he _couldn’t_? What if Euron managed to get the upper hand and then fulfill his promise, “own” Jon before giving him a slow, torturous death?

Theon practically lurched into Gendry’s arms as the man came through the doorway, probably startling him in the process. “To the Coliseum,” he ordered. “I need to get there right away.”

Gendry, for his part, didn’t ask questions. Just threw one of Theon’s arms over his neck. Theon clung tight as they made their way into the hall and down the stairs like an awkward three-legged beast. They managed the two flights of stairs and came out on a street Theon wasn’t familiar with but close enough to the _forum_ that he could see the arched walls of the Coliseum over the rooftops. He pointed, rather uselessly because Gendry was already steering them in that direction.

Arya had been right; they reached the _forum_ faster than Theon could have made it on his own, and Gendry could shove aside anyone who did not get out of their path fast enough. There was a steady flow of people in the _forum_ , but unlike the last few times Theon had been to the Coliseum, there were no crowds to be swept up in, no stream of people leading up to the archway entrance. From the roar of thousands of voices, everyone was already inside and the matches in full swing.

His heart beat like a galloping horse.

A cheer arose, and Theon desperately hoped he was not too late. He could hear the faint voice of the _editor_ addressing the crowd, which grew more distinct the closer they drew, though still muffled. Theon’s entire world became that voice, straining to make out the words, wondering if they would confirm whether the fight that had just ended had been Jon’s, and whether it had spelled victory or death for Wildling.

“—seems Bear Maiden lives up to her name.”

Bear Maiden. The gladiatrix. Not Jon’s opponent, so it couldn’t possibly be Jon’s match. Had it already come and gone? Was it already too late?

“Next we have a man who likewise lives up to his name. For the main event, a match our sponsors have long been looking forward to.”

As they limped towards the entrance, one of the armored men standing guard threw his hand out. “Stop!”

“I have to get in!” Theon fairly shrieked.

“You’re not allowed in after the games have started.”

“But I…”

The other guard tightened his grip on his _pilum_ meaningfully.

Gendry looked from the guards to Theon, uncertain what to do.

“I present,” the _editor_ ’s voice continued from within, “our thirty-times undefeated reigning champion of the arena, Gratius Tertius Euron, the Crow’s Eye, the man Tartarus spat back!”

The crowd cheered as Euron took the field, and Theon growled in frustration. “This way,” he said, tugging on Gendry’s shoulder. He wouldn’t be able to do anything from within the stadium anyway. He needed to get to the _hypogeum_ to get to Jon, before they had a chance to lock him in the ring.

He could still hear cheering and the _editor_ ’s voice as they hobbled towards that gate that would take them down into the tunnels. “Some claim he is a demigod and others claim he is cursed by the gods themselves…”

The man standing guard today was familiar, and he looked at Theon with no small amount of surprise. “You? Your master said we wouldn’t be seeing you again, just that big, blond guy.”

“I don’t answer to him anymore,” Theon spat. “I’m a free man and I go where I please.”

The guard shrugged. “Free or slave, you _know_ I can’t let anyone in while the games are going.”

“I have powerful friends.” Theon wasn’t even sure if his own words were a bribe or a threat, but the man needed to know he didn’t have time for this bullshit.

“I’m sure you do, but if I let anyone in, it’ll be _my_ hide on the flogging post. Your friends will have to offer me a _lot_ of coin to make that worth my time, and seeing as I don’t even believe they exist…” Again, he shrugged.

The cheering from above died down and the _editor_ ’s voice continued. “And a man who also lives up to his name, the barbarian from lands unknown, slayer of wolves and men alike, the man known only as Wildling.”

The cheering rose again, and Theon knew Jon had entered the ring. Too late. He was too late.

No. He wouldn’t accept that.

“Hurry,” he said, pulling on Gendry’s shoulder again. He led the way this time, forcing himself forward, even when it meant putting weight on his splinted ankle. There was still one chance left. He might not be able to get Jon out, but he could still get in _to_ Jon. To let him know he hadn’t abandoned him, hadn’t forgotten him.

To see him one last time, if that was all there was.


	34. xxxiii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings apply to this chapter.

He dragged himself more than crawled through the muck, slipping past the broken grate that Gendry couldn’t quite fit through. On his own now, Theon pulled himself along excruciatingly slowly until he was on the other side. The closed-in walls, so claustrophobic before, now made it easy for him to navigate, leaning heavily on their solid stones to keep himself upright.

The sounds of beasts and men filled the tunnels, but he could barely hear them over the ringing in his ears and the thudding of his heart. He limped past Jon’s cell, found it empty, as expected, and kept moving. Nobody had stopped him so far. And if anybody _tried_ to stop him, he’d fight them.

Light funneled in from up ahead, the entrance to the arena. There were several armed men watching through the bars, laughing with each other and slapping each other on the shoulder, hands lazily resting on their _pila_ should they be called in for security measures. Their lips moved, but Theon couldn’t make out their words as the air was filled with booing and jeering. Breathing raggedly, he pushed himself the last few paces and threw himself at the bars.

“Hey!” one of the guards cried out in surprise.

Theon ignored their angry shouting and questions. His eyes and ears locked onto what was happening out on the field.

Euron was circling Jon, occasionally lashing out with his _gladius_. Jon made only the minimal effort to avoid his attacks, staggering back like a drunken man. His own _gladius_ lay discarded on the ground at his feet.

What was this? Had they drugged him before the match?

“Fight me!” Euron screamed, and struck Jon across the face with the hilt of his sword.

Jon was spun around by the force of the blow, and Theon caught sight of his face. He didn’t look drugged. He looked like he had that day after he’d killed the Halfhand, his eyes dead with defeat. He staggered back to his full height and turned to face Euron again.

“Jon!” Theon called out to him, as loud as he could, but it was drowned out by another wave of boos. And by one of the guards hauling him back and spinning him around.

“You’re not allowed down here.”

Theon fought against his grasp.

“Did you hear me? You’re—”

Without thinking, Theon bit into the man’s hand. Pain flooded his mouth as his broken teeth sank into the man’s skin, but he was rewarded by a sharp yelp and a retracted hand. He threw himself back at the bars just in time to see Euron take a swipe at Jon that cut across his cheek and left a blooming line of red in its wake.

“Fight me, you coward!”

Jon didn’t even attempt to staunch the blood that flowed over his face. Instead he leveled his gaze at Euron. Theon couldn’t see it, but Euron visibly balked. Not many things made Euron balk, Theon imagined. “ _Dyro Dduw dy Nawdd_.”

“What?” Euron demanded.

Words continued to fall from Jon’s mouth as the guards grabbed hold of Theon. He held on to the bars, but they managed to pry him off with laughable ease. He took a punch to the gut as they pushed him to his knees and aimed their _pila_ at his throat.

“Don’t move,” the man he’d bitten ordered.

And Theon didn’t move. Because he could still see and hear perfectly well what was going on as Jon continued in his own tongue, “ _Ag ymhob Hanfod, caru Duw. Duw a phob Daioni_.”

“What are you saying?” Euron demanded. His eyebrows rose in incredulity. “Are you _mocking_ me?” His lips split into an almost manic grin. “You think I won’t cut you down, is that it?”

“I think…” Jon answered in Latin, “that I could cut you down today, and the next man down tomorrow, and that I could spend the rest of my life cutting men down for _their_ enjoyment.” His eyes flicked to the stands, where people were baying for blood. “But that is no life I want.”

“Jon, Jon, no,” Theon said.

“Quiet,” the guard hissed. “The _villicus_ has been summoned, and he’ll deal with you shortly.”

Euron threw back his head and let out a loud, barking laugh that carried across the field. “You think I’m going to _mercy_ kill you?”

He kicked out and caught Jon full on the chest with his boot. Jon stumbled back and fell to the ground like the straw dummies they practiced with. Euron was on him in the flash, kicking him over onto his stomach and kneeling down over him.

“If you won’t give me the satisfaction of fucking and killing you in a fair fight, then _I_ won’t give _you_ the satisfaction of dying. I’ll keep you, alive, to own and demean over and over again, until there’s nothing left of you. Less than a slave, less than a beast…you’ll be my furniture, to use as I see fit, but I won’t let you die. Is _that_ the life you want?”

He grabbed the studded leather chest armor and used his _gladius_ to hack at the ties holding together at the shoulder. Jon didn’t fight back, even when he cut the ties at his sides at well and wrenched the chest plate off completely, leaving Jon only in his thin undershirt.

“Jon!” Theon screamed, and received a cuff to his ear that sent his head spinning.

“Still nothing to say?” Euron’s voice mocked. “Fine, then. Have it your way.”

The world came back into focus to the image of Euron sliding his blade under Jon’s shirt and cutting it off with one smooth motion. The fabric fell away to reveal Jon’s bare body beneath, the crisscross of lash marks on his back, the brand mark on his ass. Euron crouched down over him. Spread his hands out over the expanse of skin with a look of awed satisfaction. Then he dipped his head and licked at one of the deeper scars on Jon’s shoulder.

A ripple of revulsion ran through Jon’s body, but he didn’t fight back.

“Always wondered what you tasted like,” Euron said, voice no longer raised so that the crowd could hear it, but just loud enough that Theon could. “I’ve been waiting for this too long. Whether you fight or not, I’m going to give them a show.”

His hands roved lower, cupping Jon’s ass, studying the goat’s head burn. He curled his lip in disgust.

“But first we’ll get rid of that ugly thing.” He reached for his discarded _gladius_. “After all, you don’t belong to him anymore.”

Jon’s fingers clutched at the dirt, the sinews on his arms strained, but he didn’t cry out as Euron began to carve into his flesh.

“No!” Theon screamed and lurched against the hands holding him. “Jon, no! Fight back!”

There was no way Jon could hear him over the clamoring of the crowd. And yet, somehow, he lifted his head, just slightly, and like the magnetic pull of a compass, his gaze found Theon’s from halfway across the field, behind a row of thick iron bars.

“Fight back!” Theon screamed. “You _promised_!”

Jon’s eyes widened. Light came flooding back into them. His features hardened with resolve; his arms shifted with the coiled energy Theon had seen a hundred times during training.

“Get up!” Theon hollered. “Get up and—!”

He took the butt of a spear to his face, which sent him back to the dusty ground. “Silence!” the guard roared.

But the damage had been done. Jon had heard him. _Seen_ him. And as Euron finished cutting away the brand with a triumph cry, Jon lashed out with his feet, catching the madman right in the face with a powerful kick. Euron reeled back. Jon jumped to his feet, heedless of his nakedness, and searched the area for his weapon. He must have spotted it quickly, because his eyes went wide and he dove.

No sooner did Theon see the glint of metal in Jon’s hands than Euron was on him, tackling him back into the dirt. Jon tried to bring his blade up, but Euron grabbed him by the wrists and pinned them to the ground. His cackle rang in Theon’s ears.

“There’s the Wildling I’ve wanted to tame for so long.” He bucked suggestively against Jon’s body.

Jon bared his teeth and struck up with his head, smashing Euron in his already-bleeding nose. Euron recoiled and Jon rolled out from under him. By the time Euron had recovered, Jon had sprung to his feet and brought his _gladius_ about defensively.

Euron grinned and stooped to pick up his own sword with unhurried ease. “Shall we give them a show, Wildling?”


	35. xxxiv

They circled each other.

Jon was naked save for his leg greaves and sandals; Euron’s only armor was the _mancia_ covering his right shoulder and arm. He otherwise wore only a loincloth and the same leg coverings as Jon.

Blood dripped down Jon’s leg from where Euron had taken his blade to him, and he was still bleeding from the cut on his face; Euron was bleeding profusely from his nose, and his eyes were beginning to bruise.

Now that Jon was fighting back, the odds were much more even. But Theon didn’t want _even_ odds. The urge to shout out again was all-consuming, but with both opponents razor-focused on each other, he dare not distract Jon and held his tongue. And his breath. The tension in the arena was as thick as air before a storm.

Euron was the first to break their standoff. He charged at Jon, swung out with his _gladius_. But this time, instead of merely dodging, Jon swung out to meet his attack, and the metal of their blades clanged together.

The crowd roared, and even the guards holding Theon at spear-point craned their necks to watch through the bars.

The two gladiators pushed against each other, as if their swords were shields. Euron struck out with his free fist, but Jon was quick and caught it with ease. Muscles strained; sinews stood out against corded limbs. Euron was bigger, taller, but he could not seem to gain the upper hand as they grappled, connected by blade and arm.

He pushed harder with his arm, and that was when Jon pulled back with his _gladius_ and swept at Euron’s legs. Euron leapt back just in time to avoid what would have been a fatal blow to the inside of his thigh. As it was, Jon missed the spot that almost guaranteed a man would bleed out when cut deeply enough, though he did manage to slice a thin line above Euron’s knee.

Euron looked down, assessed the wound, then looked back up with a feral grin. He said nothing, though, as they began their circling dance again. They were both panting heavily. Theon could _hear_ their ragged breaths, it had grown that silent in the stadium. For his own part, he didn’t breathe at all.

Jon crouched, kicking up dust into the air as his foot slid through the dirt, his _gladius_ held two-handed pointed out. Theon didn’t even watch Euron, too enraptured by the look of intense concentration on Jon’s face, the way his loose hair lay plastered against the sweat on his forehead. His naked body gleamed in the daylight.

When he launched himself forward, his movements were so fluid and sure, it was almost as if Theon had been blessed with foresight, because he could see the outcome moments before it happened. He saw Euron running to meet Jon, _gladius_ raised up for a downwards swing. He saw Jon fall to his knee, missing the swing entirely. He saw the upward thrust of Jon’s blade as it took Euron through the stomach, up to the hilt.

He saw it all clearly in his mind’s eye, and then again as it happened before his real eyes. The look of shock on Euron’s face as Jon’s sword sank swift and deep. The way his body jerked, unable to fall as Jon held him there, glaring up at him with icy intensity. The way time didn’t move for a long, long moment.

Then, Jon’s chest contracted as he breathed out and pulled free his _gladius_. Euron collapsed face-first into the dust and didn’t get up. Jon spared at contemptuous look at his body and threw his sword to the ground.

For a moment, it seemed as if nobody knew how to react. Then a cheer began to rise from the crowd, growing into a deafening crescendo. In the stands, people leapt to their feet, threw their hands into the air. Even the guards holding Theon whooped.

Theon pulled himself up to his hands and knees, limbs shaking, and laughed. It wasn’t an appropriate reaction at all, but the sense of utter relief that flooded his body stole all his senses from him. He was still chuckling when the gate began to open and two of the guards rushed out to escort Jon from the field.

“You,” one of the guards ordered, “on your feet.”

Theon didn’t think he could stand if he tried.

The guard grabbed Theon’s arm and hauled him up, giving him a rough shake. “Alright, you got your front-row view. Now get out of the way. The _villicus_ will deal with you shortly.”

But Theon had no intention of getting out of the way. He pushed himself forward as the guards came through the gate with Jon in tow. Jon pushed forward too, grabbing Theon before he could fall. The smell of grit and sweat and _Jon_ filled his nose. “You came back,” Jon said, almost in an awed whisper.

“I promised, didn’t I?” Theon managed to get out before the guards were on him, trying to rip him away.

“Stop!” Jon yelled, holding onto Theon even as the guards escorting him tried to pull him back as well. “This man is the only one allowed to tend my injuries. Those are Vargo’s orders!”

The guards looked to each other. “Is that true?” one asked.

“Fetch Vargo, see what he has to say,” the man Theon had bitten said.

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday,” someone else said.

“I heard he paid to fuck Bear Maiden. Bet he couldn’t walk after that.”

A round of chuckling passed between the guards.

“I think I remember Wildling had a personal attendant,” one of the guards finally said. He seemed to be in charge, because he turned to Theon with a venomous glare but announced, “Very well, you can tend him, but only because I don’t much relish the idea of disobeying Vargo’s orders.”

They were led back to Jon’s cell, still clinging to each other. The door was closed and locked, and one of the guards—the one Theon had bitten—stood watching them through the bars and would not leave, no matter how Jon protested. In the end, Theon had to coax him to lie down on his bed, on his stomach, so he could wash where Euron had cut out the brand mark.

It was an ugly wound, not terribly deep—in fact, quite skilled, given the _gladius_ was a stabbing tool and not meant for skinning—but wide enough that it could not be sewn together. Theon supposed the best that could be done was to clean it and bandage it. Jon winced as Theon took the wetted cloth to it. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

Jon snorted. “The bastard did me a favor, getting rid of it.”

“He could have killed you,” Theon said, suddenly angry, “or worse. Why were you so quick to die?”

Jon was silent. “I don’t want to end up like Qhorin—the Halfhand, they called him. I thought…it might be better to…end it quickly…than to linger like that.”

“Euron wouldn’t have ended it quickly.”

Jon sighed. “I didn’t care.”

“You _didn’t_ care?”

“Not until I saw you behind the gate. I thought I’d never see you again. I thought…”

“You thought I’d abandoned you?” Theon asked.

Jon didn’t answer.

Theon leaned over him and cupped Jon’s face. “How could you think that?”

Jon looked furtively to the guard, but the man seemed to have grown bored waiting for them to pull something, because he was more intent on watching the hallway than them. “The day you told me about…I waited for you all day and night, but you never came. Then that man, the big one with the yellow hair, came and told me Ramsay wanted to apologize but you absolutely refused to see me anymore and that _he_ would be delivering gifts from now on.”

“And you believed him?”

Jon scowled. “Of course not. Not at first. But then…that other man came…”

“What other man?”

“The one with the beard.”

“Littlefinger?” Theon hazarded.

Jon shrugged. “He had that young girl with him, the one from before, with the brown hair. He said _you_ had told him I’d requested her.”

“Jeyne!” Theon cried. In his excitement to tell Jon of their escape plans, he had not thought to warn him that he’d arranged to have Jeyne sent to him. Jon must have been terribly confused.

“And at first I thought that was another trick too,” Jon said. “But he seemed genuinely baffled when I told him I was not interested in raping young girls. He said that you had been adamant that I had requested her. I took her…uh, I kept her in my cell but did not touch her, to appease him, so that he would not punish her. I told her I would not hurt her, but she cried anyway, she was so terrified. And I remembered how you had not liked it when I touched you the last time we met…”

“I _did_ like it,” Theon protested. “I just…I wasn’t ready.”

Jon nodded. “I know. I know you weren’t. Which is why I began to consider…perhaps you didn’t wish to see me again after we…” His face turned a bright pink. “I thought I had frightened you off.”

“No,” Theon said. “Ramsay found out. He was holding me. I tried to get to you, but he wouldn’t let me.”

“I thought that likely as well,” Jon said. “And if that was the case, then I was trapped here, unable to help you. I almost _hoped_ I’d frightened you off, because the idea of what he might be doing to you…that you might be dead…” He propped himself up on his elbows. “The idea that they’d taken the last good thing from my life…it was too much.”

A dam inside Theon broke and a thousand emotions came flooding out of him at once. The only way to stem the tide was to grab Jon’s face and smash their lips together. Jon returned the kiss with equal force, like a man dying of thirst in the desert. And for a minute, it didn’t matter that they were in a cold, hard cell. They could have been on a warm, soft hillside in the sun and it wouldn’t have mattered. It was just the two of them. And that was all.


	36. xxxv

Because Ramsay was dead and Roose was currently being held for trial—though Theon suspected he would soon be out, if he could gather together the appropriate bribe money—Arya performed the _manumission_ ceremony. Theon knelt before the magistrate and Arya touched the _vindicta_ to his head, officially freeing him from his position as slave.

“Stand, Gratius Marcus Quartinius Theon,” the magistrate, a pot-bellied man with a wine drinker’s ruddy complexion, said. “Today you rejoin the Empire as a citizen, with all its rights restored to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Theon said, though he only felt extreme disgust towards this man and the whole system of men, lining their pockets to look the other way and only performing their public duty when it suited them. Indeed, the whole thing left a sour taste in his mouth.

“Of course it’s all bullshit,” Arya said, seeming to read his mind as they made their way to her…headquarters, Theon thought of it as. She’d set up in a tenement in the Porta Copena District as part of her continuing charade as Aurelius. “Just to be clear, I don’t expect you to call me _patron_.”

“I don’t.”

“Good, because you’re a free man now, and even though I appreciate the help you’ve provided, I can’t keep getting you out of trouble.”

Theon felt his face flush. “Thank you,” he said, “for clearing up that business at the Coliseum.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “I had hardly anything to do with it. The _villicus_ knew you well, and in the absence of Vargo, I dare say you’re the closest thing Wildling has to an owner at the moment.”

Vargo, yes. By now the stories were widely circulated, how Bear Maiden had bitten off his ear, though of the man himself there was no news, only rumors that he lay feverish in bed and his odds of recovery were looking grim. It left Jon’s fate uncertain at the moment. He would likely go to the highest bidder should Vargo pass. The man who had unseated the reigning champion of the Coliseum would fetch a hefty sum.

Not that Theon intended to let that happen.

“I do have one last favor to ask,” he said, “if it’s not too much.”

Arya held up her hand to stay his request. “I’ll consider _that_ an unfulfilled promise on my part, for which I still owe you.”

“Thank you,” Theon said. As they walked, Theon leaning heavily on his crutch, he considered this was the first time he’d had the chance to truly speak with her. “Ary—Arry,” he said before he could call her out loud by her real name. “About Littlefinger…”

Glancing at her unmistakable profile, so similar to her father’s it was striking, he saw the smirk that curled at her lip. “You heard about that, did you?” There was a definite hint of pride in her voice, which was really all the confirmation he needed.

“So, you had something to do with the _purpure_ they found him hiding?”

“Are you asking if I planted the evidence or if I merely alerted the proper authorities to its presence?” She looked over her shoulder at him. “I’ll leave that up to your imagination. I will say, it took less machination on my part than I anticipated. I’d be disappointed if my ultimate goal had been to get Littlefinger arrested.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No, that was only to ensure he had nowhere to hide and that no one would risk helping him. Not even his friends in the Senate were willing to take his money once he was declared an enemy of the Empire. Except me, of course. Aurelius is a generous young man, from a wealthy and powerful family, you see. He would be _happy_ to house Littlefinger while he tried to smooth this whole thing over.”

“Where is Littlefinger now?”

Arya grinned at him. Her teeth were not sharp, but there was something decidedly wolfish about them. “Perhaps I’ll let Jeyne tell you.”

“Jeyne?”

Arya’s face softened a bit, much to Theon’s surprise. “You know, I always thought she was a silly girl, like Sansa. But she’s stronger than I gave her credit for. The both of them. They’re survivors.” She nodded to him. “Just like you.”

 

***

 

Jeyne was the first one to greet them as they arrived back at the tenement, throwing her arms around Theon and hugging him tightly until he winced. “Theon! Oh, Theon, you don’t know how happy I—I never thought I’d see _any_ of you again.”

Theon hugged her back with the one arm not occupied by his crutch. “I’m sorry—”

“Shh,” she hushed. “That’s _all_ you said to me those two days you were in bed. ‘I’m sorry, Jeyne. I didn’t forget you.’” She pulled back and wiped at her face with her forearm. “I _know_ you didn’t. I never thought you did, but when I saw you that day Littlefinger brought me to the Coliseum…I understood.” She nodded to herself, offering a quick sniffle. “So when Arya—sorry, when _Aurelius_ saved me from Littlefinger, I knew I had to do what I could to save you from…that man.” A visible shudder ran through her frail body.

“What happened with Littlefinger?” Theon asked.

Jeyne looked away, and her ratty hair fell over her face.

“A few days ago, he came into the brothel in a bad mood and began packing things in a hurry. He wouldn’t answer any questions, just said he had some business to attend to and that Marillion, his _villicus_ , was in charge of us for a while. But Marillion never showed up, and we were beginning to wonder what was going on…and that’s when the men in armor came.” She tugged on a lock of her air, and her voice quivered. “I was so scared, Theon. The last time men in armor…”

 She trailed off. Shook her head, and continued.

“They said Littlefinger was wanted for treason and if anyone had any information about his whereabouts, we were to come forward. And then they said we couldn’t stay there while they looked for evidence, so we were herded up and…and it was just like that day…”

Theon understood only too well. “Did they put you in a holding cell?”

She shook her head. “No. They said we would be put in the temporary care of someone named Aurelius, and they brought us here. You can imagine my surprise when I found out who Aurelius turned out to be.”

Theon smiled. “At least you knew…uh, ‘he’ wouldn’t hurt you.”

Jeyne grimaced. “Well, I wasn’t so sure at first. I didn’t know what was going on. Aurelius had us all gathered in the foyer and ordered us to be silent. We stood there for a long time. We had no idea what was going to happen to us. And then we heard screaming from upstairs. Just…terrible screaming, like someone was being murdered. And then we heard footsteps of someone running, and one of the girls screamed and I thought we were all going to be killed!”

She was trembling as she spoke.

“But then Littlefinger came running down the stairs, and he was covered in blood, and we all began to panic. He tried to push his way through us, but we were crowded too close together. And then Aurelius appeared at the top of the stairs, and ‘he’ had a bloody dagger, and he called out to us that the Empire couldn’t be trusted to give Littlefinger the justice the gods demanded and so he was acting as a divine emissary. He said that on this day we were also divine emissaries and that it was our duty to punish this man as we saw fit.”

“And did you?” Theon asked.

“Well…at first we were all frightened and confused. But then one of the girls…Ros…she just…she began to claw at him. And then Satin grabbed him around the neck. And then…everyone was just… _falling_ on him. They pulled him to the ground and began kicking and clawing at him and just… _tearing_ him apart, Theon.”

“What about you?”

Jeyne’s face turned absolutely red. “I…I might have. I don’t…really remember much after that. But…there was blood on my hands and under my nails…” Her fists clenched. “By the time everything calmed down, there…there wasn’t much left of him. I was horrified. I think we all were. But…I’m not sorry.”

“I know the feeling,” Theon agreed, thinking of the satisfying moment he’d plunged his makeshift knife into Ramsay’s ribs.

“He made us do _terrible_ things,” Jeyne said as tears began to spill over her cheeks. “And when we didn’t do what he asked, or we didn’t make a customer happy, he’d…he would…”

Theon pulled her close with his free arm, and she buried her head against his chest. “I know,” he whispered, and let her cry. He felt tears of his own begin to form. He had grown beyond the point of caring whether he was weak or not; the fact that he’d killed Ramsay and fought his way to Jon proved he wasn’t. So he let himself cry, let the undignified noises come, the tears and the snot and the drool. Soon they were leaning against each other, until he couldn’t even tell who was holding up whom anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end.


	37. xxxvi

Jon kept shifting uncomfortably until Theon prodded him. “Roman ladies don’t fidget in public, Jon.”

Jon glared at up him under his _palla_. “Roman ladies don’t seem to be able to walk very well either.” He seemed more put off by the bulky clothing itself rather than being made to dress as a woman. “Must I wear this? Isn’t it dark enough that no one will notice me?”

 “They will notice you are missing from your cell soon, if they haven’t already. And they’ll be looking for a dark-haired man, not a Roman lady.” Theon looped his arm through Jon’s as they walked, still hobbling along on his crutch. “Did you know Achilles disguised himself as a woman once?”

“Who is Achilles?”

“A demigod and Greek hero of the Trojan War. Of course, our Roman ancestors were on the _other_ side of that war, so some would say Hector is the better hero.”

Jon shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand any of that.”

“Don’t they have heroes in your homeland?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I expect you to tell me all about them.”

The clanking of hobnailed boots echoed off the cobblestones, and Theon hurried to pull the _palla_ over Jon’s face. Hopefully they looked like a couple out for a late evening stroll, a dutiful wife helping her crippled husband.

A file of the urban cohort broke around the corner, marching in disciplined rhythm. Theon’s heart pattered in his chest, and he clung tightly to Jon’s arm. _Fortuna, please…please, just this once…_

The officer in charge squinted at them in the dim lamplight. “Evening,” he said.

Theon nodded back. “Evening.”

“Pretty late to be out on the streets, don’t you think?”

Theon had to force his words out around the lump in his throat. “I’m to take a walk before bed, sir, to strengthen my leg.” He gestured to his crutch. “Physician’s orders.”

“Mmm,” the guard said noncommittally, and he leaned in closer.

Jon looked away like a bashful maid, though in truth trying to hide the stubble on his cheeks.

“Well, you should hurry home. The streets can be rather unsafe for law-abiding citizens such as yourselves. Cutthroats and thieves about.”

“I trust you will keep us safe, sir. But we will. We’ll head home just as soon as we can.”

The man nodded for his file to stand aside as Jon and Theon limped past them. All the while, Theon could hardly see, could hardly breathe. It was Jon alone that kept him on his feet.

Even after they had left the soldiers behind—and could hear their footsteps retreating down the street—it still felt like his chest was in a vise. Every shadow that moved, Theon saw armed guards waiting to fall upon them. He saw Ramsay peering at them from around every corner. Gods, why had they decided to do this at night? _Because we can make the shadows work_ for _us_ , his mind said. _Ramsay is dead, and Littlefinger and Euron too. The underworld is not likely to release them anytime soon._

And just when he’d found a measure of comfort in that thought, a hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder and he whirled around to find Euron leering at him from the shadows. He squawked and recoiled. Perhaps Kraznys had not been spouting bravado and Tartarus itself truly had spat his uncle back out.

In a flash, Jon reacted, pushing Theon behind him and growling at the shadowy, one-eyed figure. Theon could feel his muscles tensing under the _stolla_ Arya had provided for his disguise.

“Easy there.” The figure threw up his hands and stepped into the light of the nearby lamp. Shadows played over his scarred face, but aside from the eye patch, he bore no real resemblance to Euron now that Theon could see him more clearly. “You’re the runaways Aurelius sent, I take it?”

“Who are you?” Jon snarled.

“Dondarius Beric, at your service.”

Theon tugged on Jon’s sleeve. “That’s the name Arry gave us.”

“I hope you two didn’t think you were being stealthy,” Beric said. “You were sneaking around like a couple of guilty thieves in the night. Though…” He nodded to Jon. “He makes a rather convincing woman.”

Jon snorted.

Beric jerked his head. “This way.”

“I don’t like him,” Jon murmured. “Are you sure we can trust him?”

“Arry’s never failed to come through for us before,” Theon said.

They followed Beric down the dark alleyway until they reached the next open street, where a covered carriage drawn by a lone horse stood parked near a fountain. An older man dressed in priestly garb sat in the driver’s seat, and he greeted them with a nod as they approached. “The runaway slaves?” he asked.

“I’m not a slave,” Theon said, though he supposed it didn’t really make much of a difference at this point. “Not anymore.”

Jon turned to face Theon. “Are you sure you still want to come with me? You’re free in the eyes of your countrymen.”

“Being free doesn’t change the fact that there’s nothing here for me,” Theon said. He leaned in and kissed Jon chastely on the lips. “Especially without you.”

The priest cleared his throat to gain their attention. “Just the two of you, then?”

Jon shot another questioning look to Theon. He’d asked Jeyne to join them, but her situation was different. She’d been born a slave and was enjoying her _manumission_ under Arya, who’d freed all of Littlefinger’s slaves. Sansa, as Baelius’s ward and only living heir, had in turn gifted them the brothel. Some of them had returned to pursue their own business; a freedman or woman could earn quite a bit, if they had the stomach for the work. Theon highly doubted Jeyne would be one of them. She was inseparable from Arya, staying by her side as closely as Gendry. No, there was too much for her here for her to be joining them on a long and uncertain journey. Let the girl enjoy her new freedom.

Theon, however, had no doubts in his mind. “Just the two of us,” he agreed.

Beric opened the back of the carriage, and Jon and Theon climbed in among the stacks of boxes and sacks. Jon winced as he sat down, the wound on his backside still far from healed. The entire wagon smelled strongly of spices and incense. “Please _don’t_ help yourself to our merchandise,” Beric said before closing them in and plunging them into utter darkness.

Theon jumped when he felt a warm hand grab his own. “The only bad part about this,” Jon’s voice said in the dark, “is that I won’t get to see you while we’re stuck in here.”

“It could be a long journey,” Theon agreed and squeezed back.

The wagon lurched forward, and the rattling of wheels over cobblestone joined the _clip-clop_ of the horse’s hooves. The entire carriage swayed as they made their way out of the city.

“To pass the time, maybe you’ll teach me a bit of your language?”

Jon didn’t answer right away. “Alright. Repeat after me: _Rwy'n dy garu di_.”

Theon tried his best to mimic the sounds. “Roon dari dee.”

“Close enough,” Jon said with a bit of a chuckle in his voice.

“What does it mean?”

“It means I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: the epilogue


	38. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, at the end. I legitimately never thought I'd be able to get this entire thing up before the Season 8 premier, and on that account I owe a huge debt to [theonsfavouritetoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonsfavouritetoy/pseuds/theonsfavouritetoy). Thanks again for all the [Biggus Dickus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kx_G2a2hL6U) energy.

Theon’s breath came in icy puffs, and he drew his cloak tighter about himself. His feet crunched through the knee-deep snow. Jon was right; it was beautiful. He’d just neglected to mention how fucking _cold_ it was.

Shivering, he made his way through the forest, following the elusive voice that called out to him. The trees were merely dark shapes in the mist, like silent giants. “Hello!” he cried.

No answer.

He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Hello! Is anybody out there?” But only his ringing echo answered back.

His toes—his remaining toes—had grown numb through the thick fabric of his wrappings. His leg had never properly healed, and though he could manage without crutch or cane, he still limped terribly, especially in the snow. It was far from his only physical reminder of Ramsay. Especially when it rained—and it rained a lot in this strange northern land—he could still feel Ramsay in his scars, in the empty sockets in his jaw, in his missing fingers. And in the hundred other humiliating ways his body had been damaged.

Jon had his own scars, and Theon knew he felt them all—Vargo lived in the lashes on his back; Euron lived in the scar on his faceand the flesh he’d carved off of him; even the Halfhand and the wolf and the people he’d killed as a soldier had left their marks on him as well. And not just on his body. Many a time Theon had woken up to find Jon gone from their bed. How many times had he hobbled, panic-stricken, from their stone house, only to find Jon outside, watching the mist rolling down from the mountains? “I couldn’t sleep,” he’d say. “The walls were too closed-in.”

However, it was Theon who couldn’t sleep on this morning. He’d woken from a dream he could not quite recall, though it hadn’t been one of his frequent nightmares. The fire had burned down to embers during the night, and as he rose to stoke it, he heard a voice, very faintly, call his name.

His head shot up. One of their neighbors, perhaps? Jon’s people were, understandably, mistrustful of a Roman living in their midst, and he couldn’t think of a reason any of them would come seeking him out in particular. Not to mention, his name had a very distinct sound to it when said in their native language, which he’d been rather slow in picking up. This didn’t sound like that. In fact, it sounded rather…familiar, somehow.

When it came again, he pulled his cloak on and went outside to check, leaving Jon asleep.

The mists on the snow bathed the world in white. When the voice called out again, a plaintive, “Theon,” it was muffled. It almost sounded like…

“Robb?” Before he could stop himself, he was heading into the forest.

No matter how far he wandered, the voice never grew any closer or farther. It was always just maddeningly out of reach. But he still grasped for it, stumbling through the snow with a growing urgency.

“Robb! Is that you?”

“Theon!”

This time it was distinctly closer. Right in front of him. He staggered a few steps, now seeing a dark figure in the fog. “Robb?” His heart stopped. The chilled air burned his lungs as he drew in a deep breath. “Robb, is that…?”

“Theon?” The figure came closer. A very solid Jon materialized before him. “Theon, what are you doing out here?”

Theon looked around. “I thought I heard someone calling for me.”

Jon tutted. “Now I know how you feel when you wake up and I’m not there.” He pulled Theon close to him. “You should be more careful, especially in the mists. The spirits like to play tricks on us. After all we’ve been through, I don’t intend to let anyone take you away to the half-world.”

“I didn’t intend to be taken,” Theon said. “I just thought…it might be somebody trying to say goodbye.”

“You’re shivering,” Jon noted, and threw his cloak around the two of them. Theon leaned into his warmth. “Let’s go home and get you warm again.”

The thought of the fire crackling, and the bed warmed by their two bodies, sounded suddenly far more irresistible than any mysterious voice in the mist. “Alright,” he said. Even if the touching and exploring had come slowly, he always felt safe with Jon’s body against his, the heady smell of him, the solidness of him after Theon woke up from a bad dream.

They started back for their home, a stone hut Theon would have considered crude this time last year, something beneath him and unfitting for a noble citizen of the Roman Empire to live in. Fortuna had a strange sense of humor that way, and even though Theon had largely given up worshiping the gods, he occasionally still left a bit of food on the hearth for the goddess of fortune and fate, a hedge against her divine humor. As long as she let him keep Jon, he didn’t need to ask for anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and leaving kudos and comments. Here's to hoping our boys and girls survive Season 8, but if not, expect a fic from me on the matter.


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